His Majesty's Secret Service
by Gwendolyn Grace
Summary: A new 'student' arrives at Hogwarts with a peculiar mission...to become friends with Draco Malfoy?
1. Settling In

Albus Dumbledore sank into his chair and studied the young-looking man across from him. A moss-colored cloak hung off the youth's shoulders, held fast by a gold chain fashioned in the shape of oak leaves. His eyes were piercingly blue above high pointed cheekbones. His chin was smooth and also somewhat pointed, his nose long, but handsome, and his light brown hair fell neatly just below the turned collar of the green silk tunic he wore. The hair almost covered his gently curved ears, but pointed tips stuck out just enough to be seen.

"Well, Ryan," Dumbledore smiled. "When the Elves agreed to send an answer, I didn't think they meant an envoy."

The other shrugged gracefully, with long, delicate hands turned palm up. "I volunteered. There are things we cannot discuss over long distances. And I wanted to visit Hogwarts again, when I had a good excuse."

"Yes, of course. The council has reached a decision then?"

"It has." He frowned. "My friend, the Anvasse take a very long time to decide anything. But in some cases, the answer is clear. The Seven Houses will not stand with Voldemort."

"I sense a But. They will not actively stand with us, either, will they?"

The Elf Ryan looked somewhere far away. "Not exactly. They will not leave their enclaves in the forests. If a servant of the Dark Lord, or even Voldemort himself, were so foolish as to enter Anvasse land, you may be sure we will dispose of the interloper in our own way. But do not look for a host of my brethren to muster on the day of battle."

"I see." Dumbledore detected his guest's private opinion on the matter. The Elf contemplated Dumbledore in the same manner, though the natural patience of his people made him seem somehow older than the white-bearded, aged wizard who sat across the desk. "There is another reason you were sent to Hogwarts to meet me, is there not?"

"Yes. We understand Severus Snape has embarked on a mission to rejoin the dark forces as a spy."

Dumbledore frowned. "It's a risk, certainly, but we need someone inside."

"It will not work, Albus. You have a much better source of information here. However, you cannot exploit it yourself." He held up one hand in an elegant staying gesture. "I know, as Headmaster you have methods of discovering what happens here. How well I remember," he smiled wryly. "But even you cannot find out everything that is said and done, and this source would not willingly talk to any teacher, even the head of his own house."

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, I think I know who you mean, Jorian." The name was a lilting, rolling sound. "What do the Anvasse propose?"

"I am to remain here for the duration, as a conduit of information for my people. What we receive is often old or out of date. Generally it does not matter, but when events move so swiftly, we need accurate intelligence."

The Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry locked eyes with the youthful emissary. "You just said this source will not talk to a teacher…"

"Precisely. In any case, do you think I could pass for a human teacher after all this time? No, I must be close to him, close enough for him to take me into his confidence and pass on what his parents tell him. I must be a student in his class, in his very house. I will—'transfer,' I believe it is called—to Hogwarts as a fifth year student."

Dumbledore sighed. "Even if we could allow this, the Ministry would object."

Ryan waved his hand again. "I am licensed for proper wand use by the Ministry. I have licenses in six other countries; it had to recognize them. Remember, the laws against non-humans using wands were passed long after I was a student at Hogwarts. They had their function at the time, those laws, and the time will come when they will be modified again. No, the Ministry is not the problem. However, I must appear to leave and then return as a student, or Voldemort's sources at the Ministry will know there is an Anvasse here."

"True." Dumbledore sighed. "You'll have to be Sorted—you and all your family were in Gryffindor, weren't they?"

"The Sorting Hat does nothing more or less than the wearer tells it to, Albus. You know that. It and you may be the only people at Hogwarts who remember me from back then—it was over a century ago. There's the ghosts, of course, but they won't be a problem. And naturally I will have to charm myself to appear human, and a little younger. I shall have to use the name, though. I have to be a 'pureblood' to get close to the target."

"Yes…what about old school records? The trophy room?"

"What about them? The Anvasse have not sent their offspring to magical school for additional training in a hundred years, not even the ruling families. If anyone actually recognizes the Pelerand name, I can simply say that it must be some ancestor. Albus," he leaned forward and was almost apologetic. "You don't have a choice. The Anvasse tasked me with this as our price for our support. Of course we will protect ourselves, and we may yet convince the Council to stand with you. But to do that, we must have up to date information. And you know as well as I that the more often a fact changes hands, the more likely it is to be distorted, lost, or captured."

"Yes. But if you pretend to leave the country, return, and are caught…."

"The Muggles have a term: 'disavowed.' Do you know what it means?"

"I see. Your actions will be denied by the Anvasse council and you will stand against any Ministry violations on your own. I don't like that at all, Jorian."

"Who among us is beyond risk, Albus? Think. It is for the boy's own protection, as well. He and Voldemort share a loathing for the Potter boy. It may well be that the Dark Lord will try to use him as a vessel to strike at Harry. You might not know until it's too late. Someone close to the boy could watch for signs of possession or influence."

The Headmaster thought for a long time. "Yes," he sighed, "I suppose you are right. You will of course share any information you do gather with me as well as the Anvasse?"

Ryan grinned. "We understand each other perfectly, Headmaster."

"Very well. I will make the arrangements and include you in the roster."

"Good." He rose, and his liquid smoothness while sitting transformed instantly into a powerful energy, like a wild creature about to strike. "I'll stay the night, and we can work out the details. I'll leave early tomorrow before anyone sees me. I'll need to go to Diagon Alley for my things—you have the professors' lists? Good. And then I shall have to board the train at King's Cross like the others, shan't I?"

The station was crowded and noisy. Children ran about the platform, greeting their friends, saying goodbye to anxious parents, and generally enjoying the last few hours before the school year officially began. Ryan moved quietly through the throng, rolling his trunk on a little set of portable wheels which he had attached to one end. He slipped onto the train and looked for an empty compartment. He navigated the corridor with the ease of an experienced traveler, though he had never taken this particular train before. 

As he passed up a partially full compartment, its door slid open and a red-headed young man poked his head out. "Oi! You the new teacher then?"

Ryan glanced down immediately, wishing he had a mirror. Was his disguise charm in need of replenishment? Was he that obviously older than the others? His confusion must have been patent, for the boy laughed at him, and was soon joined by an identical face. "Just joking—we didn't recognize you. I'm George, and this is my brother Fred."

"Hallo." Ryan grinned. "Call me Ryan."

"I thought we knew everyone who goes to Hogwarts," Fred said casually as they insisted that he sit with them.

"Transferring." Ryan told them briefly, not wanting to get too chummy. He recognized them from the Daily Prophet archives, and of course, the family resemblance. These were Weasleys. It wouldn't do to get too friendly with Gryffindors. Although, alliances are always a good option, he thought. And he didn't want to meet his target too soon.

"Transfer student?" George said dubiously. "I don't think I've ever heard of that before."

"Yes, awfully mysterious, George." Agreed Fred. "Transferring from where, then?"

"Another school," Ryan told them with a one-shouldered shrug. "Are those fireworks in your bag?"

"Yeah," the twins smiled wickedly, accepting the change in subject without really noticing. "It's our last year, so we've really got to make it count," Fred explained.

"And that means setting off firecrackers?"

"Firecrackers, stinkbombs, and our own private stock as well." And George launched into the theory and genius behind Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

Ryan let them amuse themselves, thinking of his own share of pranks from the Hogwarts he remembered. Apart from a disturbing reliance on stinkbombs, these two seemed industrious enough.

"What kind of detentions do you lads get for all this?" He broke in at one point.

"Detentions?" They frowned. "Oh, the usual—polishing silver in the trophy room, dusting the hallways and classrooms, anything Filch wants us to do, really."

"And you don't mind it?" Ryan asked, knowing the answer.

"Depends on how well the joke goes, doesn't it?" George said blankly.

"I guess it would, at that."

"How about you?" Asked Fred, his curiosity returning now that they had exhausted their inventory, and sold nothing. "Why did you say you were transferring?"

"I didn't." He smiled. "Let's see this Laughing Lozenge again—you say it took three hours for the fumes to wear off?"

The lunch cart came around soon afterward, and they filled up on pasties and chocolate frogs. Ryan ate a pasty delicately and watched the countryside out the window. The compartment door slid open again and a boy with dreadlocks came in to sit beside him. "There you two are. I've been looking all over. I was stuck with—who's this then?" He asked, seeing Ryan for the first time.

"What? It's Angelina Johnson, Lee, obviously. She's had a little change," George began, but Fred swatted him soundly.

"Ryan, this is Lee Jordan. Lee, this is Ryan…er…"

"Pelerand," Ryan said, supplying the surname. "I'll let you chaps catch up. Excuse me." And he stepped into the corridor to find the bathroom.

"What's his story?" Asked Lee as soon as the door shut, helping himself to a chocolate frog.

"Transfer, he says," George said. "I've never heard of that, have you?"

"No. Maybe his parents moved to England or something."

"He's English, all right, you heard him talk. That's Mayfair, as ever was."

"Yeah. Maybe he's been expelled from somewhere else."

The twins liked the sound of that at first, but then Fred said, "Wait. When Ron told us about Hagrid being expelled all those years ago, didn't he say they'd snapped his wand?"

"Oh, yeah." Silence fell as they tried to guess a better reason.

"Did he say he'd transferred from another wizarding school, specifically?" Lee asked.

"Yes, he—" started Fred.

"Nah, he didn't," finished George. "Remember? He just said, 'Another school,' all secretive like. Downright snotty, if you ask me."

"But he liked our joke stuff," Fred pointed out. "And he seemed to understand about everything. I don't think he's a Muggle-born, George."

Another awkward silence fell. "So, last year, hey, boys?" Lee said brightly.

"Yep."

"What about the house team this year? Think we'll pull any decent players to replace Wood, Johnson, and Bell?"

They were still talking about quidditch when Ryan returned. Lee Jordan immediately began to ask pointed questions.

"So…do you play quidditch?"

"No. No good at it," Ryan told them. 

"But you know what it is," Lee pressed.

"Of course." He appraised the young man who slid over to let him sit down again. "Trying to figure out if I'm Muggle-born or not?"

"No," both the twins said immediately.

"Yes," Lee said firmly, with a glare across the compartment.

"Not." Ryan told him. "I understood only Slytherin house was so concerned with Muggles versus purebloods."

"Oh, we're not concerned, we just…wondered," Fred said apologetically.

"Ah. I'm from a wizarding family, lads. 'S'all good."

"Why are you transferring, then?" Lee asked directly.

"Because….my family felt I should finish up at Hogwarts." Ryan told them. It was a statement calculated to be wholly unconvincing, and it succeeded. The boys were even more suspicious than before, but something in the way he said it also seemed to indicate that probing further would do no good.

They talked about quidditch some more, and school, inevitably. When the twins found out Ryan was to be entering his fifth year, they grew excited. "Our little brother Ron's in that class," George told him. "Yeah, and of course Harry." Said Fred.

"Harry…Potter?" Ryan lifted his eyebrows, feigning surprise.

"That's right. And our Ron's his best friend, to boot. You'll see, just you wait. We'll get you settled in Gryffindor in no time," George assured him.

"Hm." Said Ryan, knowing he had other plans. "This sorting…how does it work, exactly?"

"Well, it's different for everyone," George began.

"Yeah, I had to wrestle a troll," said Lee.

"And I had to hex a witch while standing on my head," Fred told him.

Ryan snorted. "What do you think I am, eleven? I'm not a firstie, lads. Really. What sort of test is it?"

"What test did they give you at your other school?" Lee asked slyly.

"Which one?" Ryan retorted. "Come on, tell me," he continued hurriedly, letting his voice whine just a tiny bit. "Is it a lottery, a chamber with doors, what?"

"Oh, no," said Fred. "Everyone has to find out the same way. We won't tell." And he crossed his arms and nodded his head decisively.

"Right," echoed Lee and George, aping him. "Unless…." George said slowly.

"Unless what?"

"You tell us the truth about where you went to school before and why you're switching."

Ryan held George's steely gaze for a few moments, challenging him silently. Then he deliberately slid his focus out the window and said, "Be that way, then." He decided to sulk a little while, for effect.

Accepting his reticence, but no less friendly, the boys fished out their cards and they invited him to play exploding snap for the rest of the trip. As the train pulled around a bend and Hogsmeade appeared in the distance, Fred announced that they should all change into their robes. Lee went to find his trunk and get his things together. Ryan simply pulled his robe over his regular clothes—jeans and a tee-shirt—and produced a belt which he used to give the shapeless cloth some definition around his waist. It had no buckles; he merely wrapped the tail around and down, almost like a tie, to cinch it.

"Never thought of doing that before," Fred said. "Looks a little funny, though, with the muggle clothes underneath."

"Professor Lupin wore a belt sometimes, didn't he?" Pointed out George.

"I've never liked robes much," Ryan said truthfully. "Belts at least make them a little more useful. And stylish."

"Get the fashion hound," George said, hooting. But just then the train pulled into the station and he lost his balance, falling against the seat. Fred also stumbled. Only Ryan reflexively stayed on his feet. 

"Right. Here we are," he said, offering them each a hand to pull them up. 

They unloaded their trunks ("Dead clever, those wheels," observed the Weasley twins), and bustled out with the other children out of Hogsmeade station and into the waiting carriages. As Ryan glanced up at the imposing castle on the hill ahead, he couldn't help remember his real studies here, so long ago….

Jorian Jorianele Melianele Peleranel, latest scion of a lengthy ruling line of the Anvasse, waited at his table for the new first-year students to be sorted. Among the first to be called was "Dumbledore, Albus," and a shy-looking young boy went and sat on the stool. The hat covered the boy's forehead, but quickly called out "Gryffindor!" and Jorian cheered along with the rest. "Good," he thought. "That will make life easier."

"Hey, Ryan, that's the kid, right? The one you're to look out after?" His friend Cygnus asked him over the applause.

"Yes. He's the one."

"Didn't he have a brother…." Asked Perseus Hardwicke, one of their roommates.

"Aberforth. Cheeky git. Squeaked through here, I understand, a few years ago. Only got an 8 on his N.E.W.T.S. Mother says Albus has a lot more potential, though."

"Right. I remember him now. Ravenclaw, wasn't he?"

"That's the one."

But the boy now came among the older students, chewing his lip nervously. "Is this seat taken?" He asked formally.

"Sure, go ahead," said the dark-haired Cygnus breezily, but then ignored him. "Ryan, why don't you try out for quidditch this year?"

"No, thanks." Ryan smiled at his friend's yearly joke. He hated flying, and everyone knew it. "I'll gladly use you for target practice, though," he offered, riposting as he did every year.

"No, thanks," Cygnus echoed in perfect imitation. Then they all cheered as the hat added another Gryffindor to their ranks.

Ryan turned his attention to the young boy who watched them gravely. "Didn't you make any friends on the coach?" He asked with genuine concern.

The boy shrugged. "I was reading." He must have read a great deal, for he wore wire spectacles that made him look even more frail than his thin form and light auburn hair. 

"Hang on…Weasley! Come here a second," he ordered, and a red-haired, gangly youth pushed his chair out from the table and complied. "Weasley, this is Dumbledore." The two boys shook hands. "Weasley's going to fag for us this year; we arranged it end of last term. If you like, he can show you the ropes. He's only a year ahead of you, Dumbledore, so you won't be in too old a crowd." He winked as he said this, but the little boy just blinked at him.

"What's fagging?" He asked.

"Oh, you know, I help out," Weasley told him in good humour. "I fetch things, and get the older boys' boots polished for them, and clean up around the dormitory. It helps them get all their work done," he explained.

"What about your work?" Dumbledore asked.

"Well, they help with that, do you see, plus it pays!" All the boys laughed a bit.

"That's right," Cygnus said. "Three shillings and sixpence a week to fag for the three of us—that's to say Hardwicke, Pelerand, and me. Say, Dumbledore, you wouldn't be interested in helping Weasley out, would you? I'd swear he's been shoving things off on the house-elves. What do you say? Whip him back into shape, give him some competition, what?"

"Stop it, Cyg," Ryan said, rolling his eyes. "You may ignore him anytime you like, Dumbledore. Anyway, first-years have too much to worry about getting used to this place to fag for the older fellows. But if you stick to Weasley, and young Longbottom over there, you'll know your way around in no time." He pointed to a blond boy busily chatting with "Wilkes,Wendolyn," who had just been Sorted into the house.

"I've only ever been to boys' schools. But I notice there are girls here. Why is that?" Dumbledore asked. 

"That's how it's always been. Muggles may feel the sexes must be segregated to learn, but we've always used Hogwarts as a way to meet our future wives, haven't we, Potter?" Cygnus suddenly leaned across the table at another, even older boy, wearing a Prefect badge. He was sitting with a very pretty witch, who scowled at the interruption.

"Shut it, Black," the Prefect said testily, causing the others to laugh again.

"Nevermind Potter," Cygnus told the new boy. "He's always uptight. It's our mission in life to untwist his knickers, isn't it Ryan?"

"That or get the house-elves to over-starch them."

"Mister Pelerand!" Yelled the Headmaster, who had been calling for quiet….

"Mister Pelerand?" An older woman with a greying bun and a severe look called to him behind thick glasses. A crowd of young students trailed behind her.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, coming over to her from his carriage.

"You're to accompany me and the first-years, Pelerand. Leave your trunk here."

They proceeded together up to the main entrance of the school. The professor led them into a side room off the main hall and launched into her usual speech to new students, explaining about the traditional sorting into houses, and admonishing them all to behave themselves and honour whichever house they were selected to be in. She was not the same professor who had prepared Ryan's first-year class, so many years previously, but the speech itself had barely changed.

"Mr. Pelerand, you may feel a little foolish about all this," she said sharply, misinterpreting his nostalgic, lopsided grin for embarrassment, "but we make it a policy that all students are sorted before the whole school. That includes transfers." She stressed the word ever so slightly with disapproval. "You will be sorted when the first-year students are through."

"Yes, ma'am." He said, dutifully looking serious again. Then they all went into the hall.

The Sorting Hat finished its annual song with a flourish to the applause of the students in the Great Hall. Professor McGonagall held up a parchment with all the first-years' names and began to read. One by one, they sat on the stool, put on the cap, and awaited its pronouncement. Inevitably the cap would shout "Gryffindor," "Hufflepuff," "Ravenclaw," or "Slytherin," and the child would join the table whose students cheered.

Ryan waited at the back for the first-years to finish up. He could feel the whole school glancing at him curiously, since transferring students were practically unheard of in the wizarding world. He was obviously too old and tall to be a first-year, but no one had ever seen him before. 

Finally the last student, "Zawicky, Evan," joined Ravenclaw and Professor McGonagall said, 'Pelerand, Ryan, Fifth Year."

Ryan stepped forward with a dubious look and put the cap on while everyone was silent around him. But his attitude was an act; inwardly he put all his attention to directing the sorting hat to place him in Slytherin house. It wasn't easy. As soon as the cap touched his head, it began "Gr—"

"Slytherin." He told it decidedly.

The voice spoke inside his head. "Haven't I sorted you before? It was Gryffindor, wasn't it?"

"Yes," he thought back patiently, "But this is a special case. Slytherin, please."

"I don't know…" the hat said. "I'm not sure I can change things once…"

Ryan "spoke" to the hat forcefully. "You were created to do one thing: name the house that is foremost in the mind of the subject. It has to be Slytherin, so say it!"

"Well, all right, if you insist—SLYTHERIN!" It shouted the last word.

Ryan took off the cap with relief, but all he showed was a faint sneer not unlike that of the blond boy sitting near the head of the table with two large and stupid-looking boys flanking him. As Ryan took his place, he glanced over at the Gryffindor table and could see Harry Potter and his friends making their own assessment. Fred, George, and Lee seemed quite disappointed. The only seat left at the table was next to the house ghost, the Bloody Baron. Silver blood spattered his translucent robes.

"Your Excellency," Ryan said, bowing out of habit as he sat. This caused a small ripple through the table, but the Baron grinned maliciously. 

"I haven't been addressed properly in over a hundred years. You! Malfoy," he went on, jabbing a finger at the supercilious blond boy. "You could use a lesson or two in manners from this one. What's your name again?"

"Pelerand," Ryan said, tucking in to his food.

"Pelerand…." The Baron rolled the name around in his mind. "Wasn't there a Pelerand family went to Hogwarts a long time ago?"

Ryan shrugged. "Think so."

"Transfer student, eh?" This was Malfoy. "Transferring from where?"

Ryan smiled coldly. "Another wizarding school." Several Slytherins laughed. A few of the girls whispered to one another. Ryan went on, his tone dripping with disdain. "Malfoy, is it?"

"That's right. Which one? Durmstrang?"

"Perhaps." Ryan smiled at the girl sitting across from Malfoy and winked. She blushed.

Malfoy turned red too, but it was with frustration. "Come on…. Well, why'd you leave then?"

"Why don't you ask the Headmaster? He has my file."

Malfoy sniffed derisively. "I've never heard of someone transferring halfway through school. There must be a reason."

"And there is." Ryan smiled again, dismissing the topic and asking for the butter to be passed. The girl near Malfoy jumped up to get it for him. 

Seeing that it was useless to pursue the newcomer's past, Malfoy instead decided to regale the table with his knowledge of Hogwarts' strengths and weaknesses, providing his own biased orientation for Ryan and the first-years. Occasionally, older students would put in a comment or two, but Malfoy by far held the group's attention. He pointed out each professor and assessed their subject and their teaching. He praised Snape, now absent, and wondered aloud about the two professors they didn't recognize. One was possibly Snape's substitute in Potions, and the other had to be their new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. 

"Know anything about the Dark Arts, Pelerand?" He asked in a superior tone.

"A little." 

"Well, Dumbledore won't let us really learn anything here, only how to defend against them, but I've studied a little on my own, of course." Several heads bobbed in assent, echoing the boy's statement. "Oh—and one more thing. You'll need to watch out for him," Malfoy went on, pointing across the hall to where Harry sat at the Gryffindor table.

"Is that Harry Potter?" Ryan asked quickly.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Of course it is," he whined. "He's pathetic, actually. And a muggle-lover. How about you," he asked, rounding on Ryan again, "Where do you stand on muggles? You are a pure blood, aren't you?"

Ryan smiled. "About as pure as it gets," he muttered.

"What?"

"I said, yes."

"Oh. Well, you never can be too careful who your friends are. Look at Potter. That girl next to him is Hermione Granger, a bossy, know-it-all mudblood who thinks she can do real magic just from reading books. And then there's Ron Weasley, whose family are wizards back as far as anyone can remember, but look at him! Not the right sort at all, don't you agree?"

"Quite," Ryan said, afraid to say more.

"Poor too, naturally. See what associating with mudbloods gets a wizard family these days?" He peered at the newcomer. "How about your family, Pelerand? What side are they on?"

Ryan looked him right in the eye. "Their own, of course."

Malfoy opened his mouth to ask another pointed question, but the girl beside him broke in. "Oh, don't pester him, Draco. I think he'll do Slytherin proud. Won't you?" She batted her eyes down the table at Ryan.

"For you," he promised her. All the girls giggled. Malfoy blushed deeply but concentrated on his meal from there out.

"I'm Pansy Parkinson," the girl told him. The Baron had floated off at some point, so she came down and sat in the empty seat, leaving Malfoy scowling. Ryan smiled and nodded and gave Pansy every appearance of paying her attention, but merely shrugged his shoulders back at the other boys, who seemed torn between laughing at Malfoy and fearing to be on his bad side.

After dinner, Dumbledore rose and addressed the students. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts. I have as usual, a few brief announcements. Remember that the Forbidden Forest is off limits to all students. Quidditch trials are open to second-year students and above and will be held on Saturday. And I would like to introduce two new teachers to our little family…Professor Tamarov, who will be taking over Muggle Studies, and Professor DuBois, your new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. I trust that you will treat them with the respect and courtesy you extend to all our professors."

"Muggle Studies?" Malfoy groaned as they stood to leave the great hall a few minutes later. "Every year, it gets worse. Dumbledore infests the school with more and more Mudblood students, and now a new Muggle Studies teacher?"

"I heard What's-his-name was retiring," a seventh year student agreed. "I'd rather hoped he'd let the whole subject die out. Should have done," he muttered.

"Larkin? He wasn't old enough to retire," argued an older girl.

"Maybe someone _convinced_ him," yet another boy said menacingly. An awkward silence fell.

"So…where's Professor Snape?" Chirped a little first-year boy.

"Who knows? Presumably he'll turn up," said the seventh year. 

But Malfoy grinned wickedly and winked at his gorilla companions.

Although the entrance to Slytherin's common room was through the dungeons, the dormitories were midway up one of the towers. Several of the Slytherin girls tried to make sure they were standing next to Ryan on their way up, but most were quelled by a look from Pansy Parkinson. Once up the several flights of winding stairs, the rooms were quite warm and comfortable. Their trunks were set by their curtained four-poster beds, which had been turned down, and a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Ryan followed the boys to their bedroom and noted with relief that his trunk was safely delivered and undisturbed.

"Have you picked out your classes, then?" Malfoy asked him.

"Yes—over the summer. McGonagall gave me this just now, though. I suppose they had to wait and find out what house I would be in before they could assign my class times." He held out a schedule. Since he had access to Malfoy's, he'd made sure he was in most, but not exactly all of the other boy's classes. To duplicate his schedule would look too suspicious.

"Oh. Well, I suppose you'll need to do a lot of work to catch up to how things are done around here."

"We'll see, won't we."

Malfoy sniffed doubtfully. "Well, if you need any help, just ask."

"I'll do that." 

They climbed into their beds and Ryan waited for the others to fall asleep. He passed his hand through the air a few times and felt invisible wards form around the bed and his belongings. Only then did he allow himself to sleep….

Funny, how being back at Hogwarts played on his subconscious. He dreamed of his own first experience of the big four-poster beds, although Slytherins' curtains were apparently green, not red. His roommates for seven years, Perseus Hardwicke, Geoffrey Bramdon, Meningus Moran, and Cygnus Black, all gazed on their new quarters with the same awe and pleasure as countless generations of Hogwarts students before and after. Their trunks were set at the foots of the beds, and as usual the house elves had guessed well, or else their brand of magic had ways of discovering the best arrangements. 

They changed into their nightshirts, getting over the awkwardness by trading more facts about themselves. The first topic was ages and, logically, birthdays.

"Mine's in December," volunteered Bramdon. "Almost at Christmas. I'll be twelve."

"I just turned eleven last June," Meningus told them.

"Mine's not until January," said Perseus.

"August," grinned Cygnus. "What about you, Pelerand?"

Ryan hesitated, folding his traveling cloak carefully. "Erm, I'm not sure."

"Not sure? Are you an orphan, or something?" Perseus asked.

"No, but—we don't use calendar months." 

This stumped them for a bit. Then Cygnus said, "Well, what do you use?"

"Lunar months."

"So, how do you reckon it—you do keep anniversaries, right?" Cygnus prodded. He was rather like a dog with a bone, worrying it until he had completely destroyed the problem.

Ryan nodded to answer the question. "I was born on the eve of the first waxing gibbous moon after the vernal equinox."

"Ten or eleven years ago?"

"Ten."

"Right. So—vernal equinox, that's about the end of March. When's our first Astronomy class?"

"Tuesday evening," Moran supplied.

"We can look up the phase of the moon on the vernal equinox ten years ago. Then we can find out how long it took for the moon to be waxing gibbous, can't we? Then you'll know our date for your birthday."

The other boys responded enthusiastically, but Ryan frowned. "You use the same date every year, don't you?"

"Yes," all five boys said at once.

"But will that be the same moon phase every year?"

"Oh." Five voices said in ragged chorus.

"Well…you'll have two anniversaries, won't you? One for the calendar year, and one when the moon is right." Cygnus said brightly.

"Quite right," said Bramdon, and "Here, here," said Perseus, followed shortly by a simple, "Brilliant," from Moran.

Ryan nodded once in consent. They had collectively solved their first problem. But mostly, it was his gratitude to young Cygnus Black that sealed the friendship between them.

And turning in his well-warded sleep in the Slytherin dorm, Jorian muttered to himself, "April 12th."

A/N: Okay, I have to admit I came up with this idea long before I realized how many other people have inserted transfer or new students into the school of witchcraft and wizardry. While I maintain that we'll need a new wing of the school soon to house them all, I felt this was different enough (and not a Mary Sue) to warrant placing it up here. I also want to say that while I'm sure there are some really smashing stories out there about the kids in their fifth years and beyond, I haven't read many of them, or many tales involving transfers, because I didn't want to be influenced. So if I've repeated anything that's been done before, well, it's not intentional. I also want to say it's really fun playing with everyone's ancestors, and there's more of that to come. Suggestions? Comments? Speak now before the next piece gets uploaded. Cheers. 


	2. First Day

Ryan rose before dawn and opened his trunk quietly. He took a long, narrow sheath out of the trunk and padded silently past the other beds and out of the Slytherin tower, to find a solitary open corner where he could stretch and perform his daily kata. Once there, he began his workout, first stretching and going through the motions without the object in the sheath. Then, after completing a few passes without a weapon, unsheathed a thin sword from the long case and ran through several routines using it.

It was coming back that the boys stirred, opening their bedcurtains before he could conceal the sheath completely.

"Is that a broomstick?" Asked Crabbe, one of Malfoy's large and lumbering cronies.

"No," Ryan said shortly, but Malfoy didn't hear him. 

"Oh, do you play Quidditch?" He asked.

"No."

"Can't you fly at all?"

"Yes, I can fly. But I don't play Quidditch. Excuse me," he concluded and went off to shower and dress.

The plan was simple. The balance was difficult. It was easy to play hard to get and increase Malfoy's interest. It would be equally easy to gain respect among the Slytherins as a cool customer, even snider than Malfoy. What was difficult was doing so without making Malfoy an enemy. But at breakfast, he sat across from Malfoy and Pansy sat next to him, pointedly paying more attention to him than to Draco. This obviously nettled the boy, and Ryan planned to have a private talk with Miss Parkinson to send her back to her boyfriend. It wouldn't do to have a young girl hanging about, though he supposed a certain amount of crushes were inevitable. Several Elvish women his own age assured him that even by Anvasse standards, he was handsome. To a fourteen or fifteen year old girl, he must be devastating.

In any case, Ryan was polite to her, but hardly encouraging, and no different with her than any other girl in the class. He looked over his class schedule and asked who would be in "Care of Magical Creatures" with him. Malfoy groaned. "We are," he said, indicating both Crabbe and Goyle. "Hagrid is a horrible teacher, but it's an easy class to pass. The only problem is the Gryffindors are also in that class." He gestured vaguely toward their table.

"What's so bad about this Hagrid?" Ryan asked.

"He's incompetent," said Malfoy, and explained about how the gamekeeper had allowed a hippogriff to attack him one year. "Practically tore my arm off," he said.

Ryan raised an eyebrow despite himself. He wanted to ask what Malfoy had done to upset the hippogriff, but he knew better. Probably insulted the creature. Anyway, the boy wasn't finished speaking. "To make matters worse, he's half-giant. We found out last year. Shouldn't be allowed to teach, if you ask me."

"I see," said Ryan. He couldn't think of anything else to say. Just then the bell rang and the children scattered to their classes.

This morning, the Care of Magical Creatures class trooped down to the shores of the lake.

"Thought we'd take a look at some of the marine life you might expect ter meet," said Hagrid, their huge and bushy-bearded instructor. He peered at Ryan. "You the new fifth year student, er, Pelerand?"

"Yes," said Ryan smiling. He held out his hand to Hagrid, noting Malfoy's rolled eyes behind him. Hagrid's grip engulfed Ryan's slender hand, but he was careful not to squeeze too hard. His eyes narrowed in reaction to Ryan's own strength, but he said nothing.

"Well, Pelerand, yer might as well go first. There's a school of banded regalfish about ten feet into the lake. If yer can catch one, yer can harvest its crowns. When dried, they make herbs that go in potions and the like. See if yeh can catch one, and then I'll show yer how to harvest it."

"He has to wade into the lake?" Said the red-haired boy who had to be Fred and George's brother. "Hagrid, if we all wade out there, we'll be soaked for the rest of the day."

"Yer fifth year now, Ron," Hagrid told him. "It all about O.W.L.s this year. If yeh know anything about O.W.L.s, yeh know yeh've got ter think around problems like that."

Hagrid didn't notice Malfoy whispering to Crabbe and Goyle, but Ryan could hear him say, "As if he knew anything about O.W.L.s. He never got further than third year himself." 

But Ryan smiled at the red-haired boy, pulled out his wand, and pointed it at himself, muttering, his other hand on his chest. Nothing appeared to happen, but Ryan put his wand away and waded into the chilly water of the lake just the same. He stepped forward carefully, avoiding the edge of the shelf where the floor suddenly dropped away, and saw the regalfish swimming just ahead. Their crowns were bands that surrounded their dorsal fins. They were gold and looked like fine hair. Ryan stood perfectly still and let the fish swim around his robes, getting used to the new obstacle in their way. Slowly, he eased his hands into the water, cupping his fingers tight together. He stood still for a few more seconds until the regalfish wheeled around and swam by again. Then in a rush, they passed in front of him and one swam right between his hands. In a flash, he clapped his hands together and pulled the fish from the water. It flapped around and almost slipped free, but Ryan shifted his grip, laying the fish on its side and disorienting it. He waded into the shallows.

Hagrid stood there with a bucket of lake water. Ryan let go of the fish so that it slid into the bucket and the two walked out of the water together. To Ron's amazement, Ryan's robes were completely dry.

"How did you do that?" They all asked.

"What, catch a fish?" Ryan asked back.

"That too—but what charm did you use?" Ron said.

"Oh. Aridiem Tunicus."

"'Course, I thought yeh'd just catch one with a spell, meself," Hagrid said to the young man.

"It's not wise to do everything with magic," Ryan said, grinning at the gamekeeper. "There are certain tasks best done with mundane skills, don't you agree?" Hagrid grinned back.

"Interesting." Said the bushy-haired girl, pushing her way into the conversation. "I would have used the Orb of Air charm." She smiled shyly and Ron groaned.

"Wouldn't work," said Ryan and Hagrid simultaneously.

"Why? There would be air all around me, and my robes wouldn't get wet that way," she insisted.

"Yeah, but yer also wouldn't be able to reach outside it to catch the fish," Hagrid pointed out. 

"Oh. Right." She blushed. Malfoy looked about to make a disparaging comment, but Hagrid called them all over to look in the bucket. He laid a metal tray next to it.

"Now, here's how yer harvest them," he said, and he reached down and carefully clipped the thick layer of gold-colored fringe off the fish to fall into the tray. "Got ter be careful not to cut too deep," he cautioned. "It's like hair or fingernails to them—it don't hurt 'em, unless yeh get too close ter the fins. When yer done, just release them back inter the water.

"Now, who wants to try next?"

By twos and threes, the students caught and harvested regalfish. When they were done, Hagrid had a nice pile of crowns in his tray. "Good! Professor Sprout will be grateful ter all of yeh for replenishing her supply. That's all fer today. Remember to read chapters 12 and 13 of yer Monster Book of Monsters fer next class."

It was early, but the students didn't mind leaving ahead of schedule. Ryan noticed that Ron, Harry, and the girl Hermione all stayed behind. Of course, he remembered, they were friends with Hagrid and probably wanted to catch up from the summer.

"Where did you learn to catch fish like that?" Pansy asked Ryan, simpering slightly.

"From bears," he said off-handedly. Malfoy scowled. Ryan checked his schedule. "I've got History of Magic next. Where's that?"

"Oh, I'll show you," said Pansy excitedly. "I'm in that class too."

"Malfoy? What have you got?" Ryan asked, though he knew the answer.

"Advanced flying technique."

"Oh. Well, see you, then," Ryan said, and he walked off with Pansy, who put her arm through his.

"'Bye, Draco," she said coquettishly.

When they had gotten a few yards away, Ryan said without preamble, "Is Draco your boyfriend?"

Pansy blushed bright red. "Not really," she hedged. "Why?"

"Well, it's just…he seems a little upset whenever you talk to me. And I don't want to make enemies in my own house. Besides…" He winced a little artfully.

"Yes?"

"This is a bit awkward, Pansy, but….I've got a girlfriend already."

"Oh." She said, crestfallen. Then with a forced brightness, "Oh! Here?"

"No," Ryan shook his head. "Back at home. So, if you've got something with Malfoy, I don't think you should try to use me to make him jealous."

It was a less embarrassing reason for her behavior than the truth, so she quickly covered up for herself. "Oh—well, he just needs reminding every once in a while that he's not the only boy in Slytherin worth having. Besides, I just wanted to be friendly to a new house member."

"And I appreciate that, but I think he's aware that he can't take you for granted."

"Well, I should hope so. Here we are," she said, leading to the History of Magic classroom.

"Aren't you coming in?" He asked when she hung back.

"I'm just going to powder my nose," she said strangely and headed down the corridor a little way. Ryan's exceptional hearing could detect a very quiet sniffle as she left. He sighed and entered the classroom.

It was a shock for both professor and student. Binns had been alive when Ryan was a real Hogwarts student, and somehow Dumbledore had forgotten that here was one professor who might actually remember the alumnus. Ryan barely stopped the ghost in time from greeting him like an old acquaintance, which in effect he was.

"Ryan Pelerand?"

Ryan approached the desk quickly. "Yes, sir." He said loudly to make it sound like he was being introduced. Then in a whisper: "You don't know me."

Binns whispered back, "Ryan, my dear fellow—"

"Shh! I'll come explain everything later, but you've never met me before. I'm just another student like all these children. All right?"

The ghost sighed. "If you insist…. Take your seat, please, Pelerand." He then commenced to lecture arbitrarily for the hour, which was no different, Ryan thought, than when he had been alive….

Cygnus flicked a note onto Ryan's desk with a lazy levitation charm. Ryan waited until their young professor ducked his head into a huge book to read a passage in monotone, and he opened the parchment. Inside were detailed instructions for an escapade Cygnus planned. After six and a half years of trying, the two had finally discovered the password to the Slytherins common room. With it, they could slip in while the students were elsewhere and…. Ryan grinned. Everything they planned was innocuous enough, but Cygnus' prank would cause the Slytherins no end of subtle frustration for the rest of the term.

"Pelerand!" Binns had looked up and surveyed the class. "I do hope those are notes on the lecture, Mr. Pelerand," he said with false concern.

"Oh, yes, professor," Ryan agreed quickly. "But I'm confused about something…How exactly does the twelth burning of Wendolyn the Weird in the 14th century relate to the defeat of the French navy in 1804?"

Binns sighed. "Can anyone answer Pelerand's question?" He asked, as if it were obvious. No one could. "According to Hedibrius Hallifax, the noted scholar of British wizard-Muggle relations in history, Wendolyn's penchant for being caught and burned at the stake led to an understanding of wizardry among a certain Muggle family. This family was of course the ancestral family of which Lord Admiral Nelson descended. Therefore, he was aware of certain channels—" he laughed at his own pun, "channels, that is, of communication, not water—which he could use to call upon wizarding assistance to defeat Napoleon. And can anyone tell me how exactly the incident at Waterloo affected the wizarding community around the world?"

A blonde witch raised her hand. It was none other than Gwenydd Haversham, Head Girl. "Sir, Napoleon's centralization of schools in France made it difficult for western European wizards and witches to obtain magical education. With the return of a less dictatorial reign, Beauxbatons is back among the forefront of wizarding schools."

"Excellent work, Miss Haversham. Five points for Gryffindor." Binns smiled, an action he rarely allowed himself, as it made him look barely older than his students. "Now, shall we see if your classmate can avoid losing them for you?" He turned suddenly to Pelerand, who was folding a piece of parchment to pass to Cygnus. "I'll take that, if you please, Mr. Pelerand," he said softly.

"It's—"

"Give it here," Binns insisted. He held out his hand and Ryan surrendered the folded parchment. Cygnus' eyes widened, but Ryan silenced him with his own warning look.

Binns scanned the parchment quickly. His frown deepened, but he handed the parchment back to Ryan. The whole class watched him stride back to the desk, piled high with books. He selected one and brought it back to Ryan's desk. "You'll report on this before the Easter holiday," he informed his student. "At least two feet of parchment, please. Annotated." But as he resumed his lecture, his face was flushed.

"What did you write?" Cygnus asked him after class, for Ryan didn't dare pass any more notes that day.

"I was going to ask you whether you knew if Binns and Gwen had stopped going out. You know, they were keeping company before he graduated last year."

"Our Miss Haversham and Binns? She wouldn't see a Ravenclaw. You're daft."

"Yeah, well, he didn't seem to think so, did he? I mean, look at this monster of an assignment. Still, that connexion between Wendolyn and Nelson—pretty weak, if you ask me."

"What's the book?"

"Ugh." Ryan said, assessing the tome. "Wizard Cooperation through the Ages, from Late Antiquity to the Present. This has to have over a thousand pages. Great."

Cygnus chuckled. "I stand corrected. I guess you were on to something there with Gwen and Binns!"

Ryan met up with Malfoy again at lunch, and afterwards they both had Double Transfiguration together. Pansy seemed back to her normal self, simpering over Malfoy, though Ryan had noticed that during their class, she had passed a number of notes to another Slytherin girl next to her, who now also avoided him. Malfoy seemed to take Pansy's return in his arrogant stride, and Ryan tactfully ignored any questioning looks from the other boys. By the end of lunch, he seemed forgiven.

On the way to Transfiguration, Malfoy recapped his opinion of Professor McGonagall. "You really have to pay attention in her class. She's a harsh old witch," he said, "but she knows what she's doing, at least. Not like that Hagrid. And don't think I didn't notice the way you ingratiated yourself to him, Pelerand."

"Of course I did, Malfoy." Ryan explained as if Malfoy should know this already. "What's the good in getting in trouble on the first day? I'm surprised you haven't wrapped the teachers around your finger by now."

"Well, I…"

"I mean, it's the easiest way to get away with murder. Look at that Potter boy. Doesn't he suck up to all his teachers?"

"Yes," Malfoy said angrily.

"And don't they always believe him when he says it's not his fault?"

"Yes—they do," and now he was amazed at this discovery.

"Honey catches more flies than vinegar, Malfoy. If they like me, maybe they won't be quick to condemn me."

"Is that what happened at your old school?" Malfoy asked, but they'd reached the classroom by then.

Professor McGonagall was tough, and she did know her subject very well. Even when he was in school, Transfiguration was not Ryan's best subject, though he had done well enough under the old instructor, Ariadne Scuttle. McGonagall, he discovered, was more exacting than Professor Scuttle had been, and Ryan soon was glad his grades didn't really count. She particularly seemed to want to put him through his paces. Whether this was because of the extraordinary circumstances of his transfer, the false record he and Dumbledore had cooked up, or because she suspected him already, he couldn't tell.

"I should think you need a little more fur on the left side," she commented as she passed his desk. They were turning kettles into cats, something Ryan hadn't done since school.

He gritted his teeth and waved his wand at the left side of the kettle, which was growing a tail out of its spout and whiskers from its handle. "Never learned anything useful," he muttered to himself.

"What was that?" She rounded in the middle of assessing Beth Harking's tea kettle.

"I said…it's very useful, Professor." He did his best to look innocent.

"Hmph." She pointed a bony finger toward him. "I've seen students like you before, Pelerand. Don't think you can fool me. Now, suppose you tell me just what kinds of applications you think Transfiguration has?"

Ryan racked his brain. He never used the form, if he could avoid it. "Er….self-defense," he sputtered, earning giggles and snorts from the whole room, Malfoy included.

"Explain." She stood arms folded in front of her, tapping her wand against one forearm.

"Well, if an animal were to attack, say a dog? One could turn it into a dustmop."

More laughter. "Hmph." She said again. "Back to work, all of you. Pelerand, I'd like a word with you after class."

Malfoy smiled jeeringly at him and whispered, "It's only the first day! See, I told you not to—" 

"Mr. Malfoy! You'd do well to concentrate on your teapot, and not waste your time gossiping, or you will lose points for Slytherin, I daresay. And on your first day of term as well."

She ignored the muffled smirks and giggles and returned to her seat at her desk. Ryan reapplied himself to the task at hand, not needing an excuse to feel unjustly chided. Finally, after another forty minutes and a painstaking trip through his memory, he recalled the trick of the spell. "Aha!" He shouted despite himself as his teapot popped into a full-fledged cat, blinked at him and hopped off his desk to explore. He shook his head in self-deprecation, remembering the lessons long out of use. 

Everyone in class glared at him, even Malfoy. None of their teapots were close to being real cats, though many had legs, tails, and even heads by this point. Fortunately, the bell rang just then and the students began to file out. Ryan just caught a glimpse of Malfoy looking back over his shoulder at him when McGonagall jerked his attention back to her.

"First of all, you will return the kettle to its former shape," she told him appraisingly, holding out the cat, which mewed softly. Ryan complied, trying not to make it look easy, though he remembered now it was all in the wrist. "Second, I wish to make something clear. Professor Dumbledore accepted your application to study here over my objections. As far as I'm concerned, it's a miracle you weren't expelled. One excuse, Pelerand, that's all I need, and I'll recommend just that. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Ryan said guardedly.

"It's a disgrace to your family name," she went on, half to herself.

"Yes, Ma'am," Ryan agreed. He felt a little head-hanging seemed in order, so he bent his neck slightly.

"Go on to your next class then," she told him, a little more warmly, he thought.

Malfoy was waiting for him. "So," he drawled triumphantly, "the Baron was right, wasn't he? There have been other Pelerands at Hogwarts."

Ryan shrugged. "Sure, I guess." He said. Using the same family name was a risk, of course, but a necessary one. He had to come from an old, long line of pure-blooded wizards to be accepted in Slytherin. A made-up name wouldn't do. And his family had used the name "Pelerand" in human circles for centuries, longer even than Hogwarts had been in existence.

"What do you know about them?" Malfoy asked as they walked toward their next class.

The youth sighed. "You want my resume now, Malfoy? They lived here; a few generations back they moved to the continent. And now, lucky me, I'm back to carry on the tradition at Hogwarts. Why don't you ask something useful for a change?"

"Like what?"

"Like how soon can we get out of this place and have a little fun?"

Malfoy looked puzzled. "Well, there hasn't been a Hogsmeade weekend posted yet. Usually Halloween is the first weekend we're allowed—"

Ryan's lip curled nastily. "Who said anything about being allowed?" Shaking his head in disgust, he pulled away from Malfoy, but deliberately let the boy follow him.

In their next class, Herbology, Malfoy eschewed Crabbe and Goyle to work next to Ryan. "You can't sneak out of here." He warned him. 

"Why not? Didn't you say Potter does it all the time?"

"Yes, but he—"

"Then there's got to be a way to do it and not get caught." Ryan waited a moment or two to watch the boy's face grow paler. "Fine. Stay behind then." And he turned his attention to the lesson before the professor could yell at them.

Ryan didn't come to the common room after dinner, but told them he had "other plans." In keeping with his decision earlier, he would neither say where he intended to go, nor would he let Malfoy accompany him. He chose his words carefully and made it seem like he planned to leave the grounds, if possible, or at least explore the options of the castle.

In truth, Ryan had no need to explore the castle, since he knew it quite well. What he did need to do was get a message back to his people that he had arrived, made contact with Malfoy, and was setting up his network. So he made his way up to the owlery, hoping to borrow a school owl for the job. But as he approached, he heard voices.

"Snuffles wanted me to write about anything weird," said a boy.

"Yeah, but you don't really have anything to say about him, do you?" A girl's voice.

"Well, I can at least tell him everything's okay, but don't you think a transfer student isn't normal?"

"Define normal, Harry." This was another boy. It could only be Ron, Harry, and Hermione, whom he met briefly in the Care of Magical Creatures class. Ryan turned to go, but just then a small, excited owl came hurtling through the stairwell, hooting in a high-pitched, urgent voice.

"Pig?" A voice called from the Owlery, and a tidy red head peeked around the corner. "Pelerand!" Ron exclaimed. "We—didn't know you were there."

"Of course not," Ryan said with an odd smile. "Is that your owl?" He asked, ducking as the tiny bird flitted around him to land on Ron's shoulder.

"Yeah, he's really enthusiastic," Ron said. "Um…. My brothers were real surprised about the Sorting. I mean—I don't know if you know about your house but—"

"Yes, dark wizards right and left. Well, I guess one can't fool the hat," he shrugged.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, coming around the corner himself. Hermione was right behind him.

"Well, obviously, I must be a slimy, ambitious, self-serving dark wizard, mustn't I?" He laughed at the shocked expression on all three faces. "Relax, you lot. No worries. I just came to send an owl, same as you."

"But—why Slytherin?" Ron insisted. "Fred and George assured us you were all right. I mean," he continued hastily, pinking at the ears, "not that you're not, but of all the houses…"

Ryan grimaced. "I don't know," he said guilelessly. "Is the house rivalry that bad? Or the house itself? After all," he said, acting embarrassed, "the Sorting Hat said that Slytherins are powerful, crafty, and intelligent, and that they don't take any nonsense to get what they're after. I've heard Fred and George talk about the pranks they've pulled in six years here—are you sure they don't belong in Slytherin?"

Hermione bit her lip. "Well, they do have an irreverence for rules," she began.

"Yes, but they're not malicious," Ron said.

"Except when it's Malfoy," Harry pointed out.

"Or Flint," said Hermione.

"Or Dudley," Harry continued.

"Well," Ron prevaricated, "Okay, so maybe…but they don't—they're not evil," he insisted.

Ryan laughed. "No more am I," he assured them. "I just put on the hat, and it sorted me, same as you." He pushed past them into the Owlery and tied his note to the leg of a tawny owl.

But Hermione turned around accusingly. "What's your position on house-elves?" She asked with force, as if his answer would determine his nastiness once and for all.

"What?" Ryan said, genuinely astounded, watching Harry and Ron groan behind her.

"Oh, Hermione, honestly," Ron said. "She found out about the house-elves last year, and she's convinced it's slavery." He explained, red-faced.

"It is slavery," Hermione said, also flushed. "Don't you think?" She held Ryan's gaze.

"Well, the thing about house-elves," Ryan said, feeling his way, "is that it's a misnomer. They're not elves—well, not real elves. They're more of a variety of fairy. And the magic they have is a very limited magic. You see, they can only work magic if it is in the selfless help of others. No—hear me out," he said, raising a hand to her protest. "A house-elf without a family to serve has no magic. He will eventually fade."

"But without any rights, or any pay—"

"Yes, they've become rather ingrained, Granger. But they are paid, in a way. The more a house-elf serves, the greater his capacity for magic. It has its drawbacks as a system, I know. Occasionally, there's one with a progressive nature. It will swing back the other way eventually. Give it time."

"But it's wrong!" She insisted.

"Give it time," he repeated, smiling enigmatically. "Goodnight." And he went down the stairs without looking back.

"Well!" Hermione said when he'd gone.

"How do you reckon he knows so much about house-elves?" Asked Ron.

"And what does he mean about real elves?" Said Harry.

"Where did he send that owl?" Hermione asked.

A/N: Will Hermione figure out Ryan's secret before Draco does? Will Snape ever return to terrorize the students? And just how is Ryan going to get the Slytherins to trust him enough to tell him about the Death Eaters? The plot thickens next time.


	3. Acceptance

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretenses __

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretenses. He was sorted into Slytherin so that he could spy on Draco Malfoy for the race of the Elves, and to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. But so far, all he's managed to do is attract Pansy Parkinson, upset the Gryffindors' view of the world of house rivalry, and ingratiate himself to most of the faculty. For some reason, Professor McGonagall took a dislike to him from the moment he arrived and hasn't let up since. Could it simply be his reputation, the false record he and Dumbledore made up? Or could there be more to her blatant disapproval than that of a professor to a student? We join our hero on his second day of school in 150 years….

By breakfast next morning, much of the school had one opinion or another about the transfer student.

"I heard he was kicked out of Durmstrang—"

"I hear he's been put back a year or two because of trouble—"

"He's from a wizarding family, but he doesn't like robes, did you hear—"

"I heard he's got a girlfriend; told Pansy after she made a fool of hers—"

"Well, I saw him on the train with the Weasley twins, but—"

"And he talked to Harry, just last night, but—"

"Imagine! A cute guy in Slytherin!"

And so on.

Snape showed up at the teachers' table as well, scowling at everyone as usual. He looked over at the Slytherin table, where Ryan sat with Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and a handful of others. His eyes narrowed but he turned his attention to his tea and toast.

Malfoy, however, had theories of his own. "Heard you were chummy with the Weasleys, Pelerand," he said, voice tinged with warning.

"On the train. I sat in their compartment." Ryan shrugged. "They do like trouble," he said casually, adding under his breath, "and so do I."

"Oh? And what about last night then? Where did you wander off to?"

Ryan looked up sharply, snarling, but then seemed to force himself to be friendly. "You want a report, Malfoy? If you want to know, accept the invitation next time."

"Just remember, Pelerand, this is not a good time to associate with muggle lovers, or their mudblood friends." A ripple of agreement passed around the table.

Ryan set down his fork, holding Malfoy in his gaze. "Out of the worst kind of curiosity, Malfoy, just what is it about them that threatens you so?"

Malfoy's jaw dropped. "You are a muggle-lov—"

"Don't go jumping to conclusions, Draco," Ryan said with stress on the boy's name. "Where I—came from, it wasn't an issue. Educate me," he smiled slyly.

The tactic worked. After a moment, Malfoy cleared his throat. "Well," he said, warming to Ryan slightly, "You know about the Dark Lord, of course."

"He-who-must-not-be-named? Malfoy, everyone's heard of him. What about it?"

"Well, he's—Wait a minute," he sneered, "I'm not stupid."

"What?" Ryan tried hard to stay calm and look confused. Had he made a mistake? Was the boy onto him already?

"How do I know you're not spying for your new boyfriend, Harry Potter?"

It was ridiculous enough that Ryan didn't have to pretend to laugh. "Where did that come from?" He asked honestly. "Malfoy, you're paranoid. I'd never met Potter until class yesterday—and only a few hours after I'd met all of you, I might add. Why all these accusations?"

"Maybe if you told us a little more about yourself, we wouldn't be half so suspicious," said a nasty-looking older student.

"Really?" Ryan asked with sarcasm. "I tell you a sob story about my life, and suddenly you'll believe me? It's that simple, is it?" He snorted. "And they told me Slytherins were the smart lot. Well, I don't need your little _club_, boys." Just then the bell rang. Ryan fished out his schedule, deliberately contrasting his show of bravado with his gawkishness. "Great. Arithmancy."

"I'm in that; I'll show you," a fifth-year girl said with a glare at the older Slytherin.

Ryan flashed her his best smile, ignoring the discomfort it caused him for now. The girl whispered something to Pansy as they all left the table to go to class.

"Don't mind them," she told him when they exited the hall. "They're all snobs." She pulled him through the entrance hall and up the stairs, along the corridors to the Arithmancy classroom. "So, Pansy says you have a girlfriend," she said bluntly.

"Yes, I have," he said quickly, feeling his stomach sink. "Here we go again," he thought.

"Well…I thought it might just have been something you said so she'd leave you alone. I mean," she rolled her eyes, "it's Pansy, after all." She turned swiftly to block his progress. He stopped short, almost knocking into her.

"Erm…no, it's true," he told her, letting some of his nerves show.

"Where is she?" The girl asked. She really was attractive, for a child, and clearly used to having her way.

"Look, I don't even know you," Ryan began.

"Emma Naigle," she answered breezily. "Where's your girlfriend, Ryan?" She pressed closer, saying his name with all the seductiveness a fifteen-year-old can muster.

"On the continent," he said, backing into the wall. "At her school."

Emma placed her hands on his chest. "Then she doesn't need to know anything, does she?" She leaned forward temptingly.

Ryan caught her hands in his, pushing her away firmly. He chuckled. "I love trouble, Miss Naigle, but not that kind." He stepped around her, dropping pretense to find the classroom on his own. He'd forgotten how hormonally active children were at this age, a tenth of his own. He supposed he'd have to behave a little more responsively, just for appearances. Reaching back in his memory, he thought of how things were in his own real fifth year….

In 1857, Cygnus Black, Perseus Hardwicke, Geoffrey Bramdon, Meningus Moran, and Jorian Pelerand were teenagers. Cygnus played on the house Quidditch team, they all practised fencing and dueling, Ryan shot archery daily, and they all discovered girls. Each had his way of noticing the fair sex, and being noticed. Cygnus unabashedly used his Quidditch talents to impress them. Percy helped them study, inching his chair ever closer in the library until his knee pressed against the young lady's full skirted robes and his arm casually dropped over her shoulder so he could lean in to read the book they shared. Meningus flirted outrageously and made them all blush and twitter. Geoffrey was shy and quiet, but occasionally a girl would open her textbook to find a charmed rose inside, or a songbird would fly out of her notes. And Ryan was just himself. 

He could barely leave the Gryffindor common room without attracting the attention of half the females at Hogwarts. He played the flirting game well, his natural charm combining with the allure of his species to provide the perfect picture of a girl's fantasies. But, aware of his heritage, his responsibilities at home, and his life span, he made it clear that he was not looking for a mate during his time at school. Consequently, his relations with the young ladies at Hogwarts hardly extended beyond long walks together and innocent kissing. Indeed, in those days, hardly anyone's relations were any different.

But that didn't mean things didn't happen. Among other things, Hogwarts had always been a place for young men and women to meet each other and make matches between them. Following the departure of Salazar Slytherin, Hogwarts went through periods of more and less tolerance toward Muggle-born students. There were always witches and wizards who married outside the wizarding community, entrusting their husbands and wives with their secret abilities. Within a few centuries of the school's foundation, the half-blooded children from these matches were also admitted to Hogwarts, thus increasing the enrollment and the options for its students. But the bloodlines still thinned, and there were more and more children born to Muggle families who showed an aptitude for magic. Several headmasters in a row refused to admit Muggle-born students until in 1850, two years before Ryan's class began, Hogwarts opened its doors to Muggle-born wizards, to much controversy. For the first few years, the only Muggle-born students were male. Muggle parents worried about the lack of constant chaperoning, and the ease of contact possible between girls and boys, something the school was still learning to accommodate. But by 1857, there were precisely three girls in Ryan's year who were born to Muggle parents. 

The most notorious of these girls, Pandora Robinson, didn't seem to put much stock in the additional rules her parents expected her to follow. Unlike the other two, who meekly succumbed to their restrictions, Pandora enjoyed her relative freedom from chaperones and managed to convince her parents that the school matrons looked after all the girls quite well. Meanwhile, she positively indulged herself in the delights of long walks, innocent kissing, and often, whatever they could get away with doing. She, like Ryan, made no secret of the fact that she had no serious intentions for any boy there, but was only interested in having a bit of fun. It was a logical combination.

There was also Calliope Caldecott, a sweet Ravenclaw witch of sixteen who pursued Ryan at every turn. What was a boy to do? He acquiesced, naturally, and their discoveries behind the fourth floor study room doors were not limited to charms, hexes, or the nuances of ritual magic.

The obsession with girls invaded every aspect of their lives then. They chose study partners not by who really knew the material, but based on where they would most like to practice wooing. Inevitably, the dormitory conversation at night turned from subjects like Quidditch and class work to bubbling questions about the opposite gender.

"Ryan?" Cygnus called through the curtains one night.

"Yes." Came the grunted reply.

"What do you think…about Diana?"

"Diana Cooper?" Ryan asked, thinking immediately of the Hufflepuff witch in her fourth year.

"Yes. She's pretty. Isn't she?"

"She's pretty." Ryan confirmed through a yawn.

"You haven't…gone walking with her already, have you?"

"No," he answered truthfully. 

"Have you done anything else with her then?" Cygnus was bright enough to be specific about Ryan's liaisons.

"Anything?" Ryan equivocated, teasing his friend.

"Anything."

"Well…."

"Ryan," Cygnus began malevolently.

"Let's think….Diana Cooper….Diana Cooper….She's in Astronomy with us, and Magical Creatures….Does the thing with her hair…." Ryan drew out his assessment to the obvious distress of his roommate and the amusement of the others. 

"Ryan, I mean it, tell me or—"

"Relax. I haven't even kissed her. I know you like her."

"But do _you_ like her?"

"She's all right." Ryan said sleepily. "For a human."

"What does that mean?" Cygnus asked hotly.

"Means they're all human, Cygnus." Ryan woke up a little to answer the question seriously. "All the girls here—well, except Perolia, and she's my first cousin. I can't be serious about any of them, even Calliope. If you like Diana, by all means, stroll with her through the gardens or invite her to your mother's for tea."

"Well, if that's how you feel, then why do you play around so much?" Cygnus asked.

"Excuse me? How old are you? Have you seen Calliope Caldecott lately? Or even looked at how Pandora's robes are fitting this year?" Ryan retorted.

"And how about those Weasley girls?" Geoffrey piped up. "Twins. All that red hair. Imagine."

"Don't have to, my friend." Meningus lilted in his soft accent.

"Weasley's older sisters? No—you're not serious…."

Ryan sat in class trying to place himself back in that puerile mindset. How simple it was when the only thing that mattered was the slenderness of a girl's waist or how her lips felt against one's own….

"Care to join us, Pelerand?" Professor Vector asked sharply.

"Of course, Professor," Ryan said, snapping back to the present with a charming smile. The Slytherin girl, Emma, caught his smile and presumed it was for her. So, astonishingly, did Hermione Granger. The bushy-haired girl quickly dropped her attention back to her desk, while Emma held his look with a challenge. And to Ryan's biggest surprise, Professor Vector herself simpered a bit.

"Mr. Pelerand, perhaps you can tell the rest of the class the difference between the ceremonial magic of the druids and that of the ancient Minoan sects?"

As Ryan launched into an explanation of the effects of the relative longitude of the earth and proximity of the sun on seasonal shift, he saw Emma frown and Hermione scribble furiously on her parchment. He wrapped up quickly to Professor Vector's obvious approval and stole another glance at the two girls, whose desks were beside each other on his left. Emma studied her textbook now, noticeably ignoring him, and Hermione seemed to be studying…him.

The lesson took forever to end, but end it did, and Ryan decided the safest thing was to walk out with the few boys of assorted houses in the class. His next lesson was Charms, which all the Slytherin students took together. Charms was possibly the one form of human magic Ryan continued to use the most. Astronomy and Runes hardly counted, for they could not be confined to the realm of humans. Arithmancy was merely a human way of looking at the world of ceremonial magic, and Anvasse ceremonies were based on the same theories as everyone else's. But charms—spells combining a verbal and wand component—was a uniquely human form of magic, and one that Ryan frequently found useful in his work. However, he could not afford to be a star pupil in all his subjects, despite more than 150 years' extra practice, so he prepared himself for a few simple, minor ways to err in class.

Flitwick, the tiny Charms professor, appeared worried just to have the transfer student in his classroom. Ryan stifled a laugh; the false transcript he and Dumbledore cooked up held some fearsome episodes. He didn't blame the meek little man his reluctance to discipline such a problem case. On the other hand, the Slytherin fifth-years seemed to view Ryan with a little more respect than they had at breakfast. Apparently they responded better to strong tantrums than polite requests. "Good to know," Ryan thought.

With this détente established, Malfoy and his cronies took up a wary and watchful status. For the next few days, presumably at Malfoy's insistence, most of Slytherin house simply watched Ryan's conduct and movements. Crabbe apparently felt that it was his mission to discover where Ryan went each morning and what item he took with him from his trunk. Emma shadowed him in the classes they shared, which he uncomfortably discovered was many. No one asked him any questions, mindful of his tirade, but every scrap of observation, every clue was collected and brought to Malfoy, who ran his little network with equal parts threat and whine.

Ryan noticed Crabbe's efforts early and decided a little divulgence would speed things along. He wasn't about to let down the wards on his bed and trunk, but he did linger one morning just long enough for Crabbe to follow him down several corridors. He lost him in order to go on with his workout privately. When he returned to the Slytherin dormitory, though, he was gratified to see Crabbe's green curtains twitch slightly. A faithful mastiff, Crabbe returned to await his prey. Ryan bent over his trunk and carefully shielded the spell to release the wards, but before putting away his weapon, he unsheathed it, retrieved a polishing cloth, and rubbed the blade down unnecessarily. Then he put everything back in the trunk and replaced the wards, hiding both his spell and his smile at the gasp he heard behind Crabbe's curtain. He left the room to shower and dress.

By the time Ryan returned, clothed now in a loose pair of trousers and comfortable boot-like slippers, he could tell that someone had tried to get past his wards. He suspected Crabbe couldn't wait even two minutes before trying to break in through the invisible force field to take a look at the sword. Yet there was no sign of Crabbe other than his snoring; he must have dozed off while waiting. Ryan lowered the wards again, getting organized for his day. He slipped his robe on and belted it, looping the end of the belt around to cinch it in place. He hung his quill case, his wand, his penknife, and a small pouch with a few things off the belt. While he finished dressing, the other boys in the dormitory woke, except Crabbe, who could be heard snoring in bed.

"Oi! Crabbe," Goyle said, getting a sleepy response from inside.

"'S'got a sword," murmured Crabbe, rolling over.

Malfoy came over to look. "Dreaming." He concluded. "Crabbe! Get up; you'll be late for Potions."

Snape, the potions master and head of Slytherin house, was the only professor Ryan hadn't met in class yet—at least, the only one whose class he was taking. On his inventory, Ryan was doing pretty well: only McGonagall seemed to judge his "record" over his conduct thus far. The rest—Hagrid, Flitwick, Sprout, Vector, Binns, of course, and even DuBois, the new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher—tolerated if not liked him outright. Where, he mused, would Snape fall?

Snape, as it happened, was possibly the only person whose suspicion and dislike rivaled McGonagall's. It didn't help, he learned quickly, that the imported troublemaker had been assigned to the Potions Master's own house. Nor did Ryan's very rusty potions skills count for much, either.

Since Slytherin shared the Double Potions lesson with their rival house, Gryffindor, Snape said nothing during the two-hour period. Ryan worked silently on his formula regression and concentrated on getting the measurements precise—aspects of potions he never did enjoy—but each time Professor Snape peered into Ryan's cauldron to assess his progress, the man's sneer grew more malevolent. Sighing, Ryan uncorked his bottle of salamander oil and poured it, drop by drop, into the brew. He measured four drops and tipped the bottle upright to recork it, chancing a look around the room. Harry, Ron, and Hermione each had their potions well on the way to becoming Invincibility Elixirs, Malfoy looked to be a step behind Ryan, and the other students were at various stages of the process. As he scanned the room, gauging his own progress, he caught Hermione's eye, quite by accident. She blushed and looked away quite quickly, and Ryan realized she must have been watching him. 

When he looked back down at his own cauldron, to his surprise, the small blue bubbles that were supposed to rise to the surface appeared faintly tinged with pink…. "Damn," he whispered to himself, checking the formula again. No, they were definitely supposed to be darkish blue, not…purple? He picked up the vial of salamander oil and realized the area around the cork was slick. Had it dripped when he wasn't looking? The purple bubbles were boiling a little too quickly. Ryan did some fast calculation—was it the equivalent of one drop extra, or two?—and reached into his kit for a vial of mermaids' tears to counteract the oil. With a quick glance at Snape, who was insulting a Gryffindor student's potion, Ryan coaxed a single drop of mermaids' tears into his cauldron. He held his breath, focusing his will on the brew…. The bubbles turned blue again and the potion ceased its rapid boiling. With relief, he went on to the next step.

"Time." Snape announced some minutes later. "Take your cauldrons off the flames and we shall test the results."

The professor walked slowly through the classroom, grading each student's attempt.

"Longbottom," he said, singling out the same Gryffindor student as earlier to begin. "Your potion isn't even finished. You'll have to do it over as extra homework. Be here at seven o'clock tomorrow evening to try again."

He produced a dropper and a small pad from his robe pocket and drew a drop of potion from Malfoy's cauldron. The single drop of potion landed on a page of the pad—it was treated, like litmus paper—and Snape peered at it. "Not bad, Mr. Malfoy," he observed. "Could use a little more gossamer…" and he moved on. He had similar hints for most of the Slytherins; criticisms for the Gryffindors.

He stared at Hermione's for a long time, as if wishing he could find something to fault. But then, without a word, he moved to the next cauldron: Harry's. This he jumped on and dissected in a thorough manner. He asked to see the boy's regression and clicked his tongue over the parchment. "Next time, pay more attention to the text, Potter," he admonished, and moved along to Ron.

His circuitous route seemed calculated to leave Ryan's potion for last. First he looked at the brew in the cauldron. "Good colour. Yes. Consistency very good," he said, giving the potion a stir. He almost smiled. "This may be the best one in the class," he said with a glance at Hermione as he drew the sample and tested it. "Yes, indeed—" his eyes narrowed as the small blot expanded. "Wait. There's something…. Your formula, Mr. Pelerand." Ryan handed over the parchment. "Good, right…yes—but—" Snape snarled at the tall student. "You fail to mention your use of mermaids' tears, Mr. Pelerand. Why is that?"

Ryan sighed. "The salamander oil must have dripped, sir. There was too much. I added a drop of tears to neutralize the effect."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "And do you know how that changes the potion?"

"Yes," Ryan said, liking Snape less and less. "The invincibility elixir can ordinarily be diluted with water and thus weakened. However, adding mermaids' tears makes it insoluble, harder to counteract. The potion's stronger for it—sir," he added as Snape's lip twitched. The silence stretched while the two men's eyes met.

"Correct," Snape said after a moment. "Finally, a student who understands the subtle art of potions," Snape said with a piercing look at Hermione Granger. "Congratulations, Mr. Pelerand," he continued, beaming. "You're almost worthy to be taught. Ten points to Slytherin." But his eyes remained cold and suspicious while he issued the reward. "Stay after class, won't you," he said even as the bell rang. Ryan braced himself for a tongue-lashing. He couldn't see Snape as the type to appreciate being shown up by a student. This would be the second time a professor held him accountable for doing his assignments too well; it would endanger his cover story if he kept this up.

But Snape didn't say anything about the potion. Whether his performance really pleased Snape or not, Ryan couldn't tell. Instead, the professor waited until the students had all filed out before saying, "I wasn't present for the Sorting ceremony, but I understand you've been assigned to Slytherin."

"Yes, sir."

"That means as a student, you are my responsibility. I can't say it surprises me, given your transcripts and your history, that you were Sorted into Slytherin. I've checked with the other professors on your…integration into our way of doing things, and I am pleased to hear you are doing well—so far. But I want you to understand that Slytherin has as much pride as any other house at this school—more, in fact." He circled Ryan's desk like a shark. "There is one thing you need to watch out for, Pelerand, one thing that will get you nowhere fast: and that's ever forcing me to deduct points from Slytherin on your account. I don't want to see, hear, or learn about any trouble from you. I've already heard Professor McGonagall's opinions on the subject, voicing her doubts about accepting you as a student, and she's given me no end of grief about your cheek in her class the other day. How you managed to get on her bad side so quickly I don't know—and I don't want to know. Just don't make me have to do anything about it, or you'll be sorry. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. No mischief in front of you. No stunts that get back to you." Like an old habit, Ryan found and emphasized the loophole.

Snape circled back in front of him. "No mischief, period. Don't play games with me, boy, don't dare presume to prevaricate. As far as I'm concerned, there are enough trouble-makers in this school without adding you in to the mix. Now get on out of my sight."

As he approached the luncheon table later, the Slytherins buzzed with excitement. Malfoy positively glowed with pride. "Ten points! And I've never heard Professor Snape call a student worthy of teaching before. Excellent, Pelerand, really!"

Ryan smiled, genuinely happy for the first time since arriving on the train. He was in, in much less time than he thought it would take. He sat down and accepted the plate of food a seventh-year proffered.

"Can we see you sword?" Crabbe asked suddenly. The whole table fell silent.

"What sword?" Malfoy asked.

"I saw it this morning," Crabbe explained. "That broomstick. It's not a broomstick. It's a sword."

Heads swiveled toward Ryan. Malfoy looked particularly interested. "Tonight, in the common room," Ryan promised. He smiled. Teens were ultimately pretty easy to manipulate, he thought. Though Snape's reaction to Ryan's happy accident in class was what put them over the edge so soon, the sword would have gotten them in his pocket eventually, he was sure.

Then everyone began talking again. Even Emma's salacious grin couldn't ruin Ryan's sense of triumph. He was in.

The mood at the Gryffindor table wasn't nearly so light. Neville Longbottom, who had undergone a serious fit of growing over the summer and seemed even less sure of what to do with his now long legs and arms, was miserable at the thought of losing yet another evening to redoing his potions assignment. While Harry and Ron tried to console him, Hermione obsessed over the transfer student's success in class. 

"Where did he learn about mermaids' tears—that's not in the reading assignment, I'm sure. And do you know, I'd bet that if one of us had solved an overdose of salamander oil with them, and answered Snape's questions the way he did, Snape wouldn't have hesitated to dock Gryffindor points for being cheeky. Worthy of being taught potions? Who does he think he is?"

"Hermione," Ron interrupted. "Could you give it a rest? At least he didn't rip your formula to shreds." He held up his own regression, which Snape had rejected, demanding that Ron recalculate it all before handing it in.

"Where do you suppose Snape was at the beginning of the week?" Harry asked them quietly.

"Do you think—do you think he was—" Hermione stopped dead. "At the end of last term, you know, when Professor Dumbledore asked him—do you think he's gone back to _him_?"

"I'm sure of it," Harry muttered. "And yes, that's exactly what I think. I noticed that Malfoy looked pretty smug—well, more than usual, that is. It can't be easy, pretending to serve Vol—"

"Don't say the name," Ron hissed frantically. "And anyway, we shouldn't talk about this here."

"Harry," Hermione cautioned, "Professor Dumbledore told us all over the summer not to worry about this. He and Snuffles and the others will do what they must. It's our jobs just to get through school."

"I know." Harry said glumly.

"How about Hagrid?" Ron suggested. "He said he had a lot to tell us about the summer—we could go there tonight and find out how things went."

"With the giants, or with Madame Maxime?" Harry said with an eyebrow waggle, and they all cheered up a bit at that. 

"Still, it does seem strange, doesn't it? That he fixed the potion so easily—it was sabotaged, too, did you see? That horrible Terrance Frome put an extra drop in when he wasn't looking. And he just knew how to counteract it? And that he could get away with talking to Snape like that in class."

"Oh, Hermione! He's a Slytherin; Snape's head of Slytherin house. He's always played favourites. You're just jealous because he got a better mark on his potion than you."

"It's not about that, Ron, really—" She grabbed Ron's arm lightly to hold him back as the bell rang and they all rose. "I'm worried about Harry. Wouldn't it make sense for someone—You-Know-Who—to use a student to get to Harry? He's tried teachers, he's tried the Tri-Wizard Tournament, he's even tried that diary Ginny found two years ago. What if that Slytherin student isn't a student? What if he's an agent of You-Know-Who?"

Ron studied Hermione's face. She was utterly, completely serious. The theory made sense in an odd way, too, but then again, who would be desperate enough to pose as a student just to kill Harry? With all the teachers around, and with Dumbledore to check on his background, how could anyone think he'd get away with it?

"You're daft," he said with conviction. "Come on, we've got Transfiguration."

"Is it really sharp?" 

"Yes."

"May I hold it?"

"No." Ryan gripped the hilt lightly in one hand and rested the blade against a polishing cloth in his other. The weapon glinted in the soft firelight of the Slytherins' dungeon common room.

"Why not?" The speaker was a particularly annoying first year.

"Ever had any training?" Ryan asked as snottily as he could manage.

"No, but—"

"Then no. It's too dangerous." This brought a chorus of interested "Oohs" and "Aahs" from the assembly.

"You're trained to use it, then," a burly sixth-year asked.

"Yes." 

"I can't believe they let a student bring a sword," sulked a third-year boy by the name of Trent. "How did you manage—"

"What the Headmaster doesn't know won't hurt him," Ryan said. He sheathed the sword, but held the hilt under the boy's chin with menace. "And what he does know may hurt you, so you'd be wise to make sure he doesn't find out."

The third-year gulped audibly. "Y-you wouldn't—"

"Oh, yes, _we_ would," Ryan heard Malfoy say behind him. "Listen up, all of you. If Ryan has any trouble from a teacher about this, you won't just hear from him about it. Got that?"

Ryan couldn't help but be impressed at the way Malfoy's words penetrated the room. Even the older students, even the Prefects, seemed to be cowed by his assertion.

"Go on back to your studying," Malfoy ordered. He turned to Ryan, grinning evilly. "Let's take that back upstairs," he said in a manner that assumed he could have a closer look more privately.

Crabbe and Goyle trailed behind as they ascended, Crabbe announcing that he should have a go too, as he discovered Ryan's secret in the first place.

"We'll see," said Malfoy. Ryan, mindful of the delicate power structure at work, said nothing until they got to their dormitory.

"Ever held a sword, Malfoy?"

"Sure," said the boy, but Ryan doubted it was true.

"Well, here. Don't draw it, though, it's really sharp." He switched his grip on the hilt so Malfoy could accept it, and stepped back. The Slytherin student made a fist around the hilt, grasping far too tightly, and swished the blade around dramatically. His movements were so wild that Ryan was glad it was sheathed.

"What are these markings on the…the end here?"

"The pommel?" Ryan supplied the proper term. "They're runes. Family initial, that sort of thing." He jerked his eyes toward Crabbe, asking the question silently. Malfoy shrugged and passed the sword to the hulking boy. Crabbe swung the thing like a bat a few times and handed it to Goyle. When each had had a turn, Ryan took it back.

"Show us something," Goyle pleaded.

"Well, I could kill you with it," Ryan said with a tinge of threat. "What did you have in mind?"

Malfoy laughed at Goyle's puzzled expression. "He's not really going to kill you, Goyle." But he didn't look too sure when he saw the odd look on Ryan's face. "How long have you taken fencing?" He asked to change the subject.

Ryan chose the safest true answer. "Since I was four."

Their other roommate, Terrence Frome, entered the dormitory. "Great sword," he said, as if seeing them up close were commonplace. "But it's a dress weapon, isn't it? I mean, not many families make sure their children learn to fence anymore, and certainly not with real edges on, right? Flying of course, and any wizard with a brain can hex by the time he's seven. I certainly could. How about you, Malfoy?" He asked with an undertone of familiarity. "Does your father approve of self-defence with anything other than a wand?"

"Well, Father feels a competent wizard should never lose his wand in a duel," Malfoy said. He, like Frome, conversed with the easy superiority of station and wealth. "And I agree, of course. But there's still something to be said for a real sword…."

"Yeah," Frome agreed, dropping his posh exterior. "It's really cool."

Ryan put the sword away under the murmurs of mutual assent, and they went back down to their homework.

Next chapter: Ryan receives a message from home; Quidditch trials; an incident with Albus young and old.


	4. Trials

__

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretenses. He was sorted into Slytherin so that he could spy on Draco Malfoy for the race of the Elves, and to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, our hero managed to impress Snape—possibly—and was accepted by the Slytherins. But Hermione has her doubts about the mysterious transfer student, and Professor McGonagall harbours an unnatural dislike for the "boy." Will his luck continue? Or will new evidence convince Hermione she is right?

Saturday morning arrived, and with it the much anticipated Quidditch trials. Ron had been practising all summer, hoping that with three open positions on the house team, he could manage to join his brothers and his best friend for another winning season. Harry couldn't wait for the training to begin, as his Firebolt, the world's best broomstick, had spent the summer locked up in the Dursley's cupboard. They looked up through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, remarking how wonderful the day was, and speculating how much longer the weather might still feel like summer.

Over at the Slytherin table, Draco cast an appraising eye over the hopeful students. "As Captain, it's my duty to accept only the most qualified players," he reminded the children of various ages. 

Ryan had agreed to rise early with Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle to provide moral support. Pansy also joined them and sat next to Malfoy, playing cheerleader to his captain. Ryan helped himself to a bowl of hot oatmeal and doctored it liberally, listening to the odd assortment of "qualifications" the Slytherin students were citing to Malfoy.

"I've been working on my Wronski feint ever since the World Cup. Bet it's better than Potter's."

"I got a broom servicing kit last year, and I've gone over every inch of my Nimbus. It's flying faster than ever."

"Have you read _Quidditch Tactics: Keep the Quaffle; Snag the Snitch_? It's brilliant. I'll loan you my copy."

Other students chose instead to assess the team's prospects more generally.

"Well, Gryffindor's really the only problem team this year, isn't it? After what happened to Diggory last term, Hufflepuff's bound to be in disarray. And as far as Ravenclaw, I hear Chang's taking a year as an alternate. The whole team's lost its drive." The brown-haired sixth-year student who said this, Malcolm Avery, shared a slow smile with Malfoy.

"Yes, of course. How touching. 'Remember Cedric Diggory,'" Malfoy quoted with a sneer. "I remember him, all right. Remember him for an object lesson on how the strong survive, and the weak don't."

There were only a few first-year students up, since they couldn't try out for the teams, but they wanted to watch. They were clearly confused by the comment, but they caught Malfoy's implication. Everyone else at the table, except Ryan, nodded grimly. "Who was Cedric Diggory?" Ryan asked, since the first-years were too intimidated to do.

"Seeker for Hufflepuff up until last year. Represented the school in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, didn't he?" Avery said with economy. "Or should we say, he tried to do. Potter couldn't stand not getting the glory for himself, but Diggory hung on for dear life." He laughed at his own macabre joke. "You know, if he'd had the sense to let go of the prize, he might not be a corpse."

Malfoy grinned viciously at Avery. "Your father told you about it too?" He asked.

"Course he did. 'Kill the spare,' that's what they say He said."

At the end of the table, the first-years' faces paled to white. "He…died?"

"He was killed, yeah," Avery told them with a glint in his eye. "By the Dark Lord."

Ryan knew some of the details from talking with Dumbledore that long night when they sat up concocting his false record. He had no real taste for the conversation, and tried to think of a way to change the subject. Luckily, at that moment, a stream of owls flew in to the great hall, bearing the mail. A tawny owl dropped a letter by Malfoy's plate. And a pair of birds came swooping over to Ryan, with a long, thin package clutched between them. One looked like the school owl he out sent the week before; the other wasn't an owl at all. It was a peregrine falcon. She was white with flecks of grey through her feathers, and brown wingtips. She shrieked once as she dropped her end of the package and landed on top of it. The owl dropped his half of the parcel and swooped up to the owlery, but the falcon looked wide awake still.

"Hullo," Ryan said to its cocked head. "What have you brought me?" He eased his fingers between the parcel and the falcon's claws. The peregrine allowed him to lift her up and walked gingerly up his arm to perch upon his shoulder while Ryan slid the strings off the wrapping. Inside was a thin length of wood wrapped in the middle with smooth leather. A cord wound out of two colours of string was attached to one end of the stick, and a short piece of parchment was tied by a thin purple ribbon to the other end. Ryan ignored his oatmeal and the dwindling conversation and untied the ribbon. He stuffed it absently into his pouch and picked up the parchment. A light odor of perfume wafted up from the slip of paper.

"Is that from the infamous girlfriend?" Malfoy asked. Pansy looked up with obvious interest. 

Ryan scanned the note quickly, a smile softening his face as he reached the signature. Before carefully folding and adding the letter to his pouch, he sniffed the parchment and sighed. "Yes." Ryan said, rising. The falcon shifted, but stayed on his shoulder. 

The assorted boys, especially Malfoy and Avery, cooed in an exaggerated fashion and made kissing noises at him. Ryan smiled. "I'll just take this back to the dorm," he announced, picking up the staff. "Meet you on the pitch," he told Malfoy, ignoring the leers and teasing voices that continued as he walked away.

The falcon fluttered around the room while Ryan penned two quick notes for her to carry back. One was a brief report; the other, a note to thank the sender. Using the tiny ribbon, he tied the notes to the bird's leg. He carried her back outside on his way to the Quidditch pitch, but she took off as soon as they left the great entrance hall doors.

The pitch was actually rather full. Each section of the stands was scattered with onlookers and well-wishers, especially the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff sections. An odd assembly of youngsters presented themselves and their brooms to the house captains, each house taking turns to evaluate the players in the air. Alicia Spinnet, Gryffindor's captain, stood to one side of the pitch along with Harry, Fred, and George, watching a dozen or so Gryffindor hopefuls zoom around the goals, passing the quaffle to one another in a sort of scrimmage. As Ryan took a seat in the stands with Pansy, Goyle, and Crabbe, Ron Weasley sank the quaffle through the left-most goal post. Madam Hooch's whistle blew and the Gryffindor flyers all leaned forward on their brooms to return to the ground.

"Very nice flying, all of you," Alicia said, drawing the boys away with her to discuss their choices. "If you'd like to hang around a bit," she said to them, turning back, "we'll announce our decisions. All right, Madam Hooch." The Gryffindor team members slipped around the corner and the children took up seats to watch the next display of talent. 

"Slytherin, you're next," Madam Hooch announced.

Malfoy, in his green quidditch robes and carrying his Nimbus 2001, swaggered onto the center of the field. The remaining members of his team followed: the two sixth-year chasers, Montague and Warrington, and a seventh-year student named Bole, who played beater. All three were enormous. Malfoy was the youngest and smallest member of the team, but his father's money spoke volumes about his leadership.

"All right," he drawled to the collection of students. "Now, we need a chaser, a beater, and a keeper. First I'd like you each to tell me your names, your year, and what broom you ride," He smiled back at his companions, as if they had a secret plan.

The Slytherin students lined up. "Sextimus Trent," said the first boy. He was the same boy Ryan had threatened in the Slytherin common room. He was short and had brown hair. "Third-year. I have a Cloudburst 900," he told them, "but if I make the team, my father says he'll buy me a Firebolt." A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd.

"We'll keep that in mind," Malfoy told him coolly. "Next."

"Lancelius Mulberry, fourth-year. Nimbus 2001."

"No Firebolt for you, hey, Mulberry?" Malfoy asked companionably with a look at Trent.

"I'll fly on the same model as the rest of the team," Mulberry said pointedly.

"Good show. Next."

A good-looking girl with brown hair stood behind Mulberry. "Alexandra Harrison, third-year. I've only got a Cleansweep 7, but I play keeper."

"We'll see," Malfoy told her, in a voice that clearly doubted she would play at all.

"Icarus P-puck, s-second-year," stammered a thin, weak-looking boy. "N-nimbus T-t-two-thousand," he finally got out.

"Let's hope you fly faster than you speak," Montague muttered as Malfoy called, "Next."

"Antonius Flint," said the next boy. "Second-year. I'm Marcus's brother," he added. "And I've got a Nimbus 2001, as well."

"Marcus told me you might try for the team," Malfoy said, looking pleased with a candidate for the first time. "Who's next?"

"Stelmaria Nott," a dark-haired, dramatic girl announced. "Third-year. I have a Comet 990." The way she said it sounded like a challenge.

"Have you?" Malfoy said sarcastically, pretending to be impressed. "Next."

"Felicia Avery," said the girl behind her. She looked very like her elder brother, Malcolm, except she was blonde, but seemed every bit as confident as he. "Fourth-year. Mine's a Cloudburst 500."

"Anyone else?" Malfoy asked, hoping there would be another boy. "Ryan, what about you?" He called.

Ryan shook his head. "I don't play Quidditch," he insisted.

"Come on—you said you could fly," Malfoy seemed almost desperate, as if even a horrible player was a better alternative to putting a girl on the team, and he wanted better options than Trent and Puck. "Warrington, give him a broom. Crabbe! Goyle! Bring him over," he ordered.

The two behemoths stood on either side of him. Ryan felt rather like the victim in an old gangster movie, caught between two bruisers about to blow his head away. He let them frog-march him down to the pitch and accepted the broom.

"I really don't think—" he began.

"Oh, come on, it's not that hard. If Potter can do it; anyone can." Malfoy looked down his nose at the seven other players all arrayed on the field. "Well, maybe not Puck, here."

"Mr. Malfoy! May I remind you that the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw teams still have to try out their players?" Madame Hooch called sharply. "Please proceed as quickly as possible."

"Of course, Madame Hooch," Malfoy smiled back at her. "Not long, now." He turned back to them.

"Right. Now we'll hold a short scrimmage. I want you to divide up in teams of four each. Puck, you take beater," he said with a glint in his eye, "and team up with Harrison, Nott, and Avery. Avery and Harrison, take chaser positions. Nott, play keeper."

"I said I play keeper—" Harrison reminded him.

"I'm the captain, Harrison," Malfoy told her with evil delight. "You'll play where I say you should play." Harrison shrugged, acquiescing with a sigh. "Right. Now, Mulberry, you and Flint take chaser; Trent: beater." He looked at his classmate. "That leaves you keeper, Ryan, all right?"

"As long as you don't mind me losing," Ryan muttered. "Malfoy, I'm really not good at this," he hissed.

"Relax. It's just for the scrimmage," Malfoy said. But Ryan felt that the malicious streak in the boy wouldn't rest until he found some way to establish his superiority over the transfer student. Swallowing his pride, Ryan prepared himself to fail miserably.

"You'll have five minutes to score as many goals as you can," Madame Hooch announced. "On my whistle: three…two…one…!" She blew the whistle and they all kicked off.

Ryan wrapped his legs around the broomstick, which was wobbling dangerously under him. Trying to compensate, he pulled up too far and sailed right past the goals, allowing Felicia Avery to score a goal in the first ten seconds. Harrison retrieved the quaffle and scored again before Ryan could get back down to the level of the posts. Meanwhile, Puck managed to slap a bludger toward him and he dived to avoid it. He shifted his weight too far to the left and his broom twirled in place, so that only his tight grip kept him from falling off. As it was, his legs came free and he hung from the broom as it came to rest. The sounds of the spectators faded as he concentrated on holding on. He widened his grip along the length of the handle, enough to dip the tail of the broom down toward his legs. That sent the broom flying up, of course, but he managed to hook one leg over the tail and get the broom under control again. By then his goal posts were unguarded long enough for Avery to score. He got back into position; the noise of the pitch rushed back to fill his head. Flint took possession of the quaffle as it passed through the goal and threw it with considerable force to Mulberry, who positioned it for a goal, but Nott blocked it and passed it back to Harrison. She passed it to Avery, but Flint intercepted, only to be knocked off course by another bludger, courtesy of Puck. Harrison and Mulberry tussled over the quaffle, with Avery and Flint hovering nearby, looking for an opening. Trent sent a bludger whizzing toward Harrison, who had trouble shaking it because her broom was slow. She ducked at the last minute…and the bludger headed straight toward Ryan. With a cry of surprise, he flattened himself against his broom to avoid the bludger. The broom shot forward at full speed, sending him flying across the field. Directly at Nott.

"Pull up!" She cried. Ryan did so immediately, without checking the air above him first. He crashed right into Mulberry, jarring them both into almost losing their grips. Meanwhile, Harrison grabbed the quaffle and scored again.

Madame Hooch's whistle blew. With an audible sigh of relief, Ryan coaxed the broom to the ground. "Are you all right, Pelerand?" The witch asked. "Mulberry?" 

"Fine, Madame Hooch," the boys said. Mulberry shot Ryan a derisive look, which the Elf ignored.

Ryan stepped off the broom and handed it back to Warrington. "That's all for me," he told Malfoy. "I told you I'm really not good at this."

"And you were right," Malfoy said, laughing. "You should have seen your face when you fell off—" and he clutched his sides.

"My boots work best on the ground," Ryan said ruefully.

"Anything else, Mr. Malfoy?" Madame Hooch asked. "Or may we proceed with Hufflepuff's trials?"

Malfoy looked back at Warrington, Montague, and Bole, getting his giggling under control. "No, I think we've seen what we need to see," he said. The four walked off the pitch to make their decisions.

Avery, Nott, Trent, Puck, Flint, Harrison, and Mulberry all resumed their seats in the stands to wait for the results. Ryan turned to join them, but he pulled up short when he saw who had taken a seat next to Pansy on the other side of Crabbe. Emma Naigle.

She smiled at him invitingly and patted the bleacher next to her. Seeing no real alternative, Ryan went and sat. She immediately shifted closer so that her thigh rested against his. "That was pretty awful flying," she observed with humour.

"I told him I don't fly well, but Malfoy insisted," Ryan explained.

"I think Draco's skills are steadily improving," Pansy contributed unasked. "And this year, with him as captain, we're sure to take back the cup and the house championship."

"Yes, well, how nice for Draco," Ryan said.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Emma told him. "I don't care if you can't fly. As long as you can learn to Apparate, you don't need to anyway."

"Hm." Ryan grunted. He had never learned to Apparate, either. 

Pansy frowned at Emma. "Wasn't that a broomstick your girlfriend sent you this morning?" She asked, stressing the sender's identity.

"What?" Ryan swiveled his head to face her. "Oh—no, it wasn't."

"But it was from your girlfriend?" Again, the same pointed tone, aimed at Emma. "I think Quidditch is so exciting," she continued. "And Draco's ever so good at it. I don't know how I'd feel if he suddenly turned out to be clumsy."

Emma ignored Pansy's non-too-subtle warnings. "Pooh. Ryan's good at lots of things; he doesn't have to be good at flying too."

"Ladies," Ryan interrupted, sensing the beginnings of what might be an embarrassing argument, "I'd like to watch the Quidditch," he explained, motioning for quiet.

Pansy lapsed into silence, pouting. Emma too complied, but she cuddled up closer to Ryan and slipped her arm through his. Ryan sighed and removed her hand.

"My hands are cold," she explained inadequately and replaced her hand, this time linking her other hand around from the front as well, and resting her head on his shoulder.

Ryan sighed. "Whatever," he said, defeated. Satisfied with this response, Emma made herself more comfortable against him and watched the Hufflpuff trials.

Unlike the other house stands, every Hufflepuff in the school appeared to be present. It seemed that House Hufflepuff would deal with the loss of their Seeker and school champion in its own way.

Down below, three young players in Hufflepuff yellow stood on the pitch. They were facing away from the Slytherin side, so it was hard to hear what they were saying, but it seemed they wanted not only a full team, but at least one alternate for each position. Occasional phrases floated across the pitch to where Ryan and the others were seated.

"Who's interested … chaser?" Asked the Hufflepuff captain, a girl with long curly brown hair pulled back in a pony tail.

Six or seven Hufflepuffs raised their hands. 

"And how about beater?" The girl asked.

Another ten hands went up.

"Seeker?"

For a moment, nothing happened. Then three students cautiously raised their hands. Even from behind, the Hufflepuff captain looked relieved. "Brilliant. Okay, let's get you all in the air," she went on. Ryan strained to hear, but the wind only carried about every third word their way.

The twenty Hufflepuff students made their way to the ground and straddled their brooms. "I'm just going … quaffle first, and … go up and play. Then, after … are up, I'll … bludgers, and the same thing. We'll … seekers in a minute." She reached down into her box and unstrapped the quaffle. It sprang up into the air, red and large and lazily circling the pitch. Then the captain pointed to the first three chaser volunteers. Up they went, kicking off with a flourish. After a moment, she tapped two of the self-pronounced beaters and they rose on their brooms. She let out the bludger and launched herself, not to play but to watch from the same level as the players.

The Hufflepuffs were having a grand time below. They shouted encouragement and called out to their friends with helpful hints: "On your left, Jackie—four o'clock!" They behaved as if the whole proceeding were a Sunday picnic. The Hufflepuff captain flew abreast of a chaser and tapped her, they exchanged a few words, and the chaser sank to the floor, only to speak to the next in line, who kicked off his broom and took her place in the game.

Because of the number of students trying for the team, their auditions took much longer than anyone else's. One by one, the flyers swapped in and out to play a game without a snitch, and one by one the captain touched them on the shoulder and they descended. Finally, she caught the quaffle and held it, and brought it down to the ground with her.

"Okay." She caught her breath. "Now, where are our brave seekers?" The three students—two girls, and a boy—stepped forward smartly.

"Right. Now, … release the snitch. I want … try to catch it. I'm … leave … bludger up there so … maneuver around." She beckoned one of her yellow-robed comrades to join her. "…Gerry, here. He's … beater … but … watch yourselves. Get the snitch."

She walked back to the box and wrestled the quaffle, still in her arms, into its cradle. "Ready?" She asked. All three seekers answered "Yes!"

"Go!" She said, and released the snitch.

Four brooms shot from the ground up to the level of the goalposts. Yellow robes whizzed after the black bludger. Three sets of black robes zinged around looking for the tiny golden snitch. All three made valiant efforts to avoid the bludger as it targetted each, but one manoeuver in particular set the whole crowd to cheering. One of the two girls—smaller than the other, with a set of hennaed dreadlocks—twirled on her broom to avoid the bludger and as she did, she dipped underneath her competitors and back up on the other side. It could have been the same move Ryan made during his short stint as keeper, except she stayed on her broom and looked graceful doing it. She whirled above the game of keep-away and pushed her broomstick into a turn so tight around the pitch it almost looked like she was spinning in place, horizontally this time. By the time she had turned around twice, her eye caught the snitch, and she hurtled after it. 

The boy seeker saw it as well, and sped his broom to catch up. But the snitch belonged to the red-haired girl. Confident fingers reached, grasped—

Madame Hooch's whistle blew with force and the seekers all drifted to the ground to the resounding applause of the Hufflepuff spectators, and indeed the whole stadium. The Hufflepuff beater opened his arms to receive the bludger as it aimed for him, now the only player left in the air; then he too sank to earth.

The Hufflepuff captain's congratulations couldn't be heard over the din. Finally, Madam Hooch raised her hands and cried, "Silencio!" and the pitch fell dead silent. "Finite Incantatem," she intoned, and a more natural murmur resumed. The three Hufflepuffs trooped away to make their decisions, though the choice of seeker, at least, seemed clear.

"Well, that leaves Ravenclaw," Madame Hooch announced.

The Ravenclaw stands were nearly as full as the Hufflepuff section. Toward the front, a pretty, petite, Asian girl in deep blue robes sat surrounded by a small group of students. It was clear from the way they treated her—it was mostly young men—that they considered themselves an honor guard. She rose to join her teammates and the whole group of boys stood as well. The young woman smiled back at them, said something, and walked down to the field alone.

The Ravenclaw team in blue greeted her warmly. Then their captain spoke. The wind brought more of the discussion to the Slytherins.

"You all know Cho, of course," said the Ravenclaw captain, a young man with attractive black hair. He gestured to the Asian girl, who waved shyly to the approval of her house. "Cho's taking a year off as seeker, but she's agreed to stay on the team in an advisory capacity. Sort of a third-base coach," said the boy, only to be met by blank stares. "Sorry," he continued hastily. "Baseball reference. Anyway, she's going to oversee our practices, but she won't actually be playing this year—unless we need her as an alternate. So, we need a replacement seeker, and a new chaser."

Three young men and two ladies stepped forward. "Right." Said the captain. He gave similar instructions about catching the snitch and the students launched. The game was a modified tag, instead of straight Quidditch, and although Madame Hooch's whistle blew to signal the end of their five minutes, they kept going a bit. In the end, Madame Hooch had to fly up to stop them, and got tagged "it" for her trouble. Luckily, the mood was considerably lighter after all this horseplay, and she didn't seem to mind.

Ryan scanned the pitch to see if any of the teams had returned yet to announce their decisions. The Gryffindors weren't back yet, but Hufflepuff was. Their captain gave the names of the new players: Jacqueline Wallace and Johanna Thorn as chasers; a large and capable student named Mike Fullington as beater; and Tanya Martin, seeker. They also named a whole second team's worth of alternates. The whole house leapt to its feet. Cheering and clapping for the eleven junior members, who were pushed forward to acknowledge the applause, Hufflepuff prepared for what looked like a great comeback season. To no one's surprise, Tanya Martin, the new seeker, was the one who had flown circles—literally—around her competition.

By then, the Slytherin students were returning, as were the Gryffindors. Ryan wanted to find out whether Ron had made the team, but he couldn't see past Draco and his behemoth teammates. 

"This was a difficult decision for some of us," Draco drawled by way of introduction. "But I think we've made the best choices possible. Trent: we'd like you for chaser. Flint: take keeper; and Mulberry, you'll be beater for us. Now, as for the rest of you, good show." He sounded flat and insincere. "Will Misses Nott and Avery please see me before you leave? Thank you." The three new players smiled, receiving much back-thumping and hand-pumping by way of congratulations. Puck and Harrison, scowling, headed out of the pitch and back to the castle, each accompanied by one or two friends to console them. Nott and Avery sauntered forward to talk to Malfoy.

Pansy scowled as well. Things weren't going well today. First, Draco had to embarrass Ryan so badly, and then Emma showed up and gushed all over him. And now there were two more girls—and rather good-looking ones—talking to Draco, possibly being offered positions as alternates on the team. She wished she had taken her broom out and tried for the team. At least it would be doing something, instead of waiting for Draco all the time. But she didn't think Draco would have liked her to try, so instead, she just sat on the sidelines, fuming in silence.

Ravenclaw came back and made their choices known. Across the field, Ryan could see the Gryffindors filing out, but there was no sign of the team.

"At least Malfoy had the sense not to insist that I play," Ryan sighed, half to himself. "Well, shall we get back inside? After all," he said to Emma, "if you're cold.…"

"Oh, I'm all right; the sun's out now," Emma said, but she rose when he did. "Coming Pansy?"

"Yes," Pansy said forcefully and stood. "Goyle, tell Draco I'll be in the common room. Or the library. Crabbe, please tell Goyle to remember to tell Draco." She sidled out of the bleacher and followed Ryan and Emma out of the stands and up the grassy walk to the castle.

"I've simply got so much homework to do," Pansy babbled. But as they started up the hill, Ryan could see three red heads and some others in crimson robes ahead of them.

"Catch me up," he said to Emma shortly, and quickened his pace to overtake the Gryffindors. 

"Oi!" He called. "How'd it go? Slytherins were announcing at the same time, so I didn't see—" He broke into a grin at the look on Ron's face. "Made the team, then?" He guessed.

"Yeah." Ron was so happy he didn't worry about how it looked to talk to a Slytherin. "I'll be a chaser. My favourite position, too. Dead brilliant."

"Congratulations," Ryan said warmly. But Hermione turned around to face him.

"Why do you care who's on the Gryffindor team?" She asked suddenly.

"Sorry, I just—"

"Well, mind your own business, won't you?" And she grabbed Ron's arm to turn him back to his brothers, Harry, and the rest of the small group.

"Look," Fred said apologetically. 

"It's not personal," said George, overlapping.

"But we can't have you spying for Slytherin." They grinned, but they meant it.

"Funny, only a few days ago I was accused by Slytherin of spying for Gryffindor."

"Yeah, well, it's rough, isn't it?" George said. "Listen, if you want to order anything, send us a note at breakfast." Then he turned and they walked on, leaving Ryan behind.

"What was that about?" Emma asked when the girls rejoined him.

"Nothing." Ryan said. His eyes were on Hermione as she entered the castle. Obviously, she didn't trust him at all. It could just be because of his association with Malfoy. That was to be expected—in some ways, desired. But something about the girl's uncanny intelligence made him pause. It could be what he wanted….but it might be she was already checking his background. He had to find out what she suspected. And he had to do it without her—or Malfoy—knowing.

All in all, Ryan didn't mind the refresher course in human magic. Classes stretched into a routine, with an ebb and flow he remembered over countless years. Sometimes he would deliberately make small mistakes in class; others, his faulty memory needed no assistance. Once, his wand actually backfired and turned his banishing spell into a summoning, and half the ghosts in the castle showed up in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom (costing Slytherin 10 points as well).

He never did more than token homework, for several reasons. For one thing, it reinforced his reputation as a reprobate, and second, it kept him from remembering what he had forgotten since his time at Hogwarts. As if being back at the school wasn't enough to remind him in the first place. He could scarcely walk through a hallway, or look at the faces of his classmates' descendants, without expecting to see his old friends and enemies. Like once in the third week of classes, when he made his way up to the library, and he saw a chipped spot on the wall. He remembered how that flaw came to be….

"Give that back!" Young Albus Dumbledore doubled back to follow a tall, silver-blond young man walking in the other direction. A small group of other youths laughed with the tall boy in mockery.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the blond said, holding a book just out of Albus' reach. "I didn't realize—is this book yours?" He passed it back to one of his friends.

"Let's see…" Said the new book-holder. "No name in it…. How can you prove it's yours?"

Albus set his jaw and adjusted his spectacles. "Aren't you in your fifth year?" He asked the group. "If so, why on earth would you have a standard book of spells, Grade 1?" He smiled. "Unless you need remedial tutoring…."

"You little—" Three of them reached for their wands.

Albus centered his weight and put his hand in his pocket, where it met the polished birch wood. He readied his first spell, watching for any sign of motion from the older boys. But before he could get the wand out and aimed, the silvery blond shouted, "Homonium Leviosa!" And Albus found himself in midair. 

The spell he had prepared died on his lips from the disorientation. The older students laughed and a second boy shouted, "Expelliarmus!" 

Albus' wand left his hand and into that of the spellcaster. The other two were getting out their wands, but it was the third boy's turn. He pointed his wand at Albus and said, "Follicasto!" Albus' light auburn hair began to grow rapidly. It hurt, to suddenly have his hair grow more than a foot inside a minute. Despite his determination, Albus cried out.

Ryan and Cygnus were on their way to the library when they heard the shout. They turned the corner and stopped short before the scene: the first-year student hanging two feet above the ground, his hair reaching past his knees, and a group of five Slytherin students pointing their wands and laughing.

"Jareth Malfoy!" Cygnus snarled, grabbing his wand.

"Well, if it isn't the Gryffindor rescue team," the blond ringleader sneered. "Come to save your prodigal?" He chuckled. "Go ahead. If you can." He traced a lazy circle in the air. Albus somersaulted. His hair fell over his face.

"Why don't you pick on someone your own size, Malfoy?" Ryan said, drawing his wand.

"And that would be you?" Retorted the handsome blond.

"Let him go and you can see," replied Ryan.

With a sharp nod, the older boy reversed the levitation spell. Albus fell to the floor with a thud, his legs and long hair crumpling under him. "My wand," Albus demanded calmly, despite how ridiculous he looked. "And my book."

"Not so fast," Jareth Malfoy stopped the others from restoring Albus' belongings. "Pelerand, we'll go three passes. If you win, Dumbledore gets his things back."

"And if you win?" Ryan asked.

Malfoy's lip twitched. "If I win…your friend Black doesn't play Quidditch in the match next week."

"What?!" Cygnus burst out. "If I don't play, Gryffindor will have to fly an alternate, or forfeit. If we don't win, that will move Ravenclaw into second. We'll lose our chance at the cup!"

"Well, five points for Gryffindor," Malfoy mocked. "You've accurately named the stakes. So, do we have a deal?" He crossed his arms, the image of patient conciliation. 

Ryan glanced from Cygnus to Albus. The boy got to his feet between the two would-be duelists. He held his voluminous hair in one hand, and gave his head a very slight shake. Ryan looked back to Cygnus, who still held his wand ready. Hoping Cygnus would understand the signal, Ryan faced Malfoy again.

"No deal, Malfoy," he said, and immediately continued, "Accio spellbook!"

Beside him, he heard Cygnus pick up his cue. "Accio wand!" Came the boy's cry, and the objects flew back to Gryffindor hands.

Malfoy launched a spell at Ryan, but the boys were already running down the corridor, dragging the younger student with them. They heard the faint ring of sparks hit the wall as they ran away.

When they reached the common room, Cygnus flopped onto a sofa with exaggerated exhaustion, laughing. "Whew! That was close. You scared me, Ryan; for a moment, I thought you were really going to duel him for the Quidditch finals."

"Nonsense, Black, everyone knows Malfoy never duels fairly—that's why he never loses. I wouldn't risk your precious cup, but under no circumstances could we allow them to mistreat Dumbledore that way."

Albus himself, now that the incident was past, felt foolish. His hair had stopped growing, but he would need a counterspell—or a stout pair of scissors—to cut it short again. "It's my fault," he explained to Ryan. "Malfoy grabbed my spellbook. I tried to get it back…. I taunted him. But I was going to cast a spell! And then…." He trailed off, embarrassed at the memory of freezing under attack. But then he saw the look on Cygnus' face.

"You tried to duel against Jareth Malfoy?" He asked incredulously. "He's the best duelist in the school, he's four years older than you, and he had four other fifth-years with him, and you took them all on?"

Albus met Cygnus' wide-jawed stare with sparkling blue eyes. "Yes, but I choked."

"So what? Dash it all, man, five fifth-years, including Jareth bloody Malfoy! Dumbledore, you're either very brave or too cocky by half."

The young boy smiled, a little red about the face, but unable to hide his gratitude or his pride. He thumbed his textbook absently. "There must be a way, though, to find out where people are in the building, and what they're doing," he mused. "Maybe…if we had an item—a mirror, perhaps, or a map—that tells one…shows one…then I'd see them coming!" He opened his book to a chapter toward the back.

"What are you talking about?" Asked Tighlman Longbottom, who came in with a pair of boots. He sat by the fireplace and began to polish them. "Cygnus, got my pay this week?"

"Hm…Oh, right." Cygnus fished out a few coins. "Here. Dumbledore's just taken on Malfoy and four other fifth-year Slytherins."

"Really?" Longbottom asked, impressed. "How badly did you lose?"

"Just the hair, really, no lasting damage." Ryan said. "Hey, did you find that powder for Potter?"

"Yeah." Longbottom said. "I had to nick it from the cupboard by Gaines's office, and you know how he guards his supplies, so that's an extra knut, if you don't mind."

"Worth it if we can get this stuff into Potter's robes before his N.E.W.T. practice round…."

Ryan gave the old scarred brick a light touch as he went past. It would be much more fun to be back, he thought, if he had someone else around to share the nostalgia with him. Only Dumbledore remained, now. It was one more reason Elves tended to associate with humans on a very limited basis. Their brief lives were over so quickly. Most of his friends had great-great-grandchildren here now. But, remembering his mission, and its importance, Ryan pressed on with the masquerade.

As days stretched into weeks, though, Ryan began to wonder if he was wasting his time. He'd been at school nearly a month and still hadn't learned anything useful about the Death Eaters or their movements. He knew something was up when Snape was absent from class one week; DuBois substituted and Draco walked around the school looking even more superior than usual. Ryan also noticed that Draco got a letter the same morning Snape returned.

One night, soon after that, Ryan watched Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Malcolm Avery, and Stelmaria Nott make their way around the common room, speaking with various people individually. Emma seemed enthusiastic during her private conversation with Stelmaria; Pansy by contrast stuck close to Malfoy and smiled at Ryan every few minutes, as if to reassure him. He did his best to ignore them, feigning disinterest, and divided his attention between his book and the fireplace.

He felt someone sit down next to him and looked up, afraid it was Emma come to bother him again. Instead, he came face to face with Malcolm Avery. "Draco says you're pretty closed-mouthed about your family," the young man said.

"Yes," Ryan said, seeing no reason to contradict him.

"Well, what's your view on the whole thing? Should Hogwarts be accepting Mudbloods?"

"It's not really my decision, is it?"

Avery sighed and tried another tack. "You mentioned to Malfoy that you've never had to deal with them at your old school—Mudbloods, that is."

"Did I?"

"Yes." Avery's answer was swift and confident.

"Ah."

"So, I take it your old school didn't accept them as students."

"I never said that," Ryan said, smirking. "I said it wasn't a problem."

"So are you a Muggle-lover or not, Pelerand?" Avery asked bluntly.

"I don't know enough Muggles to claim either way." Ryan prevaricated.

"Just answer the question. Do you think Mudbloods should be involved in magic?" Malfoy caught Avery's eye and started over, Pansy in tow.

"Come on, Pelerand, there's no one here to condemn you." Avery kept his tone quiet and civil, but it was clear that he found the topic deadly serious. "Malfoy, tell him."

"It's just us, Pelerand," Malfoy said as he leaned over the back of Ryan's seat. Pansy hung on him and he curled one arm absently around her waist. "Tell us how you really feel."

"All right: I don't think superior and inferior races should intermingle."

"There you have it, then. Wizards are clearly superior to Muggles. Why didn't you just say so?" Avery rolled his eyes.

Ryan exhaled audibly, still smirking. "I should think you'd know by now, chaps, that one gets used to learning to say the right thing."

"Never mind that," Malfoy said. "We're all friends here. You don't have to pretend to like them around us."

"Right." Avery agreed. "And on that note…we'd like to offer you membership in a little…initiative we're planning."

"What sort of initiative?" Ryan asked.

"It'll happen very soon," Malfoy told him. "We've got instructions. But we need to know who to include, and who to trust."

Ryan's heart leaped, but he kept his voice carefully under control. "And you're trying to decide whether or not to trust me, is that it?"

Malfoy smiled cruelly, but didn't deny it. "If you were to participate in a prank we've got in mind, it might go a long way to convincing some of the others that you're…our kind of wizard."

Ryan pretended to consider. "What would I have to do?" He asked finally, noting Malfoy's pleasure at this question. He disentangled Pansy from his arms and jerked his head at her. She drifted away to stand with a small group of fifth-year girls.

"We just need to see you put your wand to work for us. Jinx a Mudblood or two. A little test, if you will."

Ryan looked from Malfoy to Avery and back. The common room continued to buzz around them, as if their conversation were pointedly being ignored.

"All right." He said slowly, as if still unsure. "I'm interested."

"Good." Avery clapped him on the shoulder in a fatherly way. "Now, we just have to decide whom he should hex."

"Aim high," Ryan suggested. "Any Muggle-born Prefects in the houses?"

"Lots. Doesn't Ravenclaw have a Mudblood Prefect this year?" Avery asked.

"Yeah. Say, what about Granger?" Malfoy suggested, obsessing as usual over his least favourite students: Harry Potter and his friends.

"She's not a prefect," Ryan said quickly.

"Sure she is; she always gets top marks in everything. She's got to be a prefect."

"Well," Ryan thought carefully. "I ran into her twice so far, outside of class, and she doesn't wear a badge."

"So what?" Malfoy interrupted, too pleased with the choice to care about technicalities. "She's still a good example. Serve her right, too." He grinned at Ryan malevolently. "Now, all we need is a plan…."

Thus it was Ryan found himself going up to the library on a Friday evening in early October, fully prepared to hex Hermione Granger.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had commandeered a table by one of the sets of high windows, between the "Cauldron Care" and "Culinary" sections, to do their work. The fading light streamed through the large panes as Ryan padded through the stacks, cat-silent, wand in hand. He crossed over through an aisle two bookcases away from the table where the three Gryffindors sat, scratching on their parchment with inky quills. He peered between the tops of the books and the bottom of the shelf above to watch. He waited until Hermione sat up to stretch, leaning a safe distance away from her essay. He aimed and fired with a quiet incantation, "Pyrorem vellumus!" The parchment burst into flames in front of Hermione.

"Oh!" She yelped, and fumbled for her wand before the fire spread to their books and the table itself. Ryan ducked down while Mrs. Pince, the librarian, came over to shush the students. He prepared to move.

"But Mrs. Pince, someone must have hexed my essay—it caught fire!"

"Fire! In the library? Gracious, that's out of the question. What on earth were you doing practicing hexes in here, at any rate—you know that's not allowed. If you want to practice, find an empty classroom." 

"Yes, Mrs. Pince, but—"

"Silence," the librarian hissed. She went back to her desk, muttering.

Ron offered to help her look for the perpetrator.

"He can't have gone far, Hermione, let's take a look around."

"Oh, Ron, now I've got to start my whole essay over. And I'd just finished it. You look, if you want to do. I'm going to stay and rewrite this."

"I'll go," Harry said to Ron, and they put down their books, grateful for the excuse to get up and move around.

But just then, Ryan tipped a book off the shelf to attract their attention. He walked toward the entrance, shooting a look back at them that dared them to follow.

"Let's go," Harry and Ron said.

"Wait—I don't think—"

"Come on, Hermione!" Hissed Ron in an excited whisper. He grabbed her hand and dragged her to her feet. They joined Harry and followed Ryan out the door.

"Where'd he go?" Asked Ron.

"Around the corner. We can still catch him." Harry said, ignoring Hermione's this-might-be-a-trap expression. They drew their wands and rushed off in pursuit.

Around the corner, Ryan signaled Malfoy and Avery.

"Did it work?"

"Whole essay, up in smoke," Ryan said with a little "poof" gesture of his hand. "They're right behind me."

"Right. Avery, you go over there. I'll take this side. Ryan, stay in the middle. When they turn the corner, take their wands. Then Avery can get the Weasel, I'll hit Potty, and you cast the jinx on the Mudblood."

Malfoy and Avery moved to their positions. Sure enough, Ron hurtled around the corner first, Harry on his heels. Ryan turned, pointed, and shouted, "Expelliarmus!" And their wands came rushing toward him.

"Conjuntivo!" Shouted Avery, and Ron clapped his hands to his eyes.

"I can't see!" He called out.

"Locomortis!" Draco said, and Harry fell to the ground, his legs stiff and immobile.

Finally, Hermione rounded the corner. "Trans-scrofus Rhinoplatico!" Shouted Ryan, and Hermione's nose lengthened into a pig-snout.

"Go sniff through the mud, where you belong," cried Malfoy as he, Avery, and Ryan ran down the hallway. Right into Professor Flitwick.

"What on earth—" The tiny charms professor exclaimed as the three young men came hurtling around the corner. "No running in the halls!" He sputtered.

Draco, Malcolm, and Ryan skidded to a halt. "Sorry, Professor," Malfoy said, oozing contrition.

"That's better." Professor Flitwick brushed at his robes. "I'm sure you boys have some homework to do."

"Yes, Professor," said Malfoy, still the picture of cooperation. "That's just where we were going. If you'll excuse us—"

"Professor Flitwick!" Came a call from the direction of the jinxed Gryffindors. "Please, Professor—they hexed us and ran!" 

Malfoy's pleasant smile grew colder. "Granger…." He growled, fuming.

"Hexed?" Professor Flitwick repeated. "Dear, oh, dear, let me see—Ooh!" He turned and flicked his wand at the three boys in quick succession. Malcolm was too quick and got away, shooting down the stairs as fast as a Firebolt. But Draco and Ryan were frozen to the spot, unable to move.

The tiny Charms professor's face fell. "I'm going to have to give you detentions for this," he told them. "Stay there, and I'll be right back."

"As if we could go anywhere," Malfoy snarled after he'd gone. 

Flitwick came back a minute or so later with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, restored to their former states. Hermione still clutched her nose, as if checking to make sure it was human again.

"Now, as for your detentions," Flitwick began, but was interrupted by the sound of an argument.

"No running in the hallways, Avery, how many times do I have to tell you?" Professor McGonagall appeared, tugging Malcolm Avery along by his ear.

"Ow—Professor McGona—"

"Ah, Professor McGonagall," Professor Flitwick said with tangible relief. "Thank you—I believe you are owed a detention, as well, young man." He smiled benignly.

"Detention?" Professor McGonagall paused to assess the situation before her. Flitwick stood in front of Malfoy and Pelerand, who appeared to be rooted to the spot, and behind the charms professor were Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "Am I to understand that some sort of scuffle took place here?" She asked tersely.

"Indeed," Flitwick said, almost gleeful that he could pass the whole thing off to her. "From what Miss Granger, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Weasley tell me, they were lured into an ambush."

"An ambush?"

"Yes, Professor," Ron jumped in, pointing at Ryan, Draco, and Malcolm. "He set Hermione's essay on fire to get us to follow him out of the library, and then he took our wands. Then all three of them hexed us."

Professor McGonagall rounded on the Slytherins.

"Is this true?"

"Certainly not, Professor," Malfoy said smoothly.

Avery shrugged. "I wasn't even there, professor. You stopped me two floors from here."

Professor McGonagall fixed a cold stare at Ryan. "And you?"

"Oh, absolutely, Professor. It happened just like Weasley said."

"What?" Seven voices chorused.

Ryan shrugged. "It was harmless fun. Nothing they couldn't have reversed on their own. Oh, here are their wands," He brought them out from behind his back. Harry and Ron snatched them away.

"Detention for Avery and Malfoy, I think, Professor Flitwick." Professor McGonagall concluded. "And if you will be so kind as to release Pelerand from his cementation charm, I believe I will take him to see Dumbledore directly."

Ryan kept absolutely silent on the way up to Dumbledore's office. It was easy to do, since Professor McGonagall barely stopped lecturing him the whole time. 

"—I warned you, Pelerand, that I do not tolerate wanton destructiveness in this school. Certainly not of the type you seem so fond to cause. When the Headmaster informed me of his decision to allow you to come here, I advised him against it. Anyone can see from your record that, family history or no, you make a poor excuse for a wizard. I suppose, he hoped that you had some inner goodness and would make a Gryffindor like your ancestors. Well, we've all seen how far that went. Disrupting three other students' studying, and destroying another student's homework! Disgraceful. It's unconscionable! It's—"

"It certainly is." Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, stood at the threshold of his office. His blue eyes twinkled gaily behind half-moon spectacles. He wore his customary purple robes and the buckles of his boots were visible beneath them. His hat was off; the silvery-white hair that hung below his shoulders was fluffy and blended into his long beard. He could barely contain his little grin of delight, seeing the Deputy Headmistress manhandle the thin, comely young student, who was a head taller than she, far stronger, and, though she didn't know it, over twice her own age. "I heard you coming," he continued, to mask his own amusement. "So I took the liberty of finding out what the trouble is. Dueling in the halls, was it?"

"Dueling!?" Professor McGonagall frowned. "It was a calculated ambush, Headmaster. To make matters worse, the boy admits it was planned."

"Really?" Dumbledore struggled to keep from chuckling. He raised his eyebrows at the transfer student, giving him permission to answer.

"Yes, Headmaster," Ryan told him in a perfectly deferential tone. "We—that is, I—lured Miss Granger into the hallway to a spot where we could jinx her and her friends."

"And why Miss Granger, pray tell?"

Ryan shrugged. "She's Muggle-born, or so I hear." He made definite eye contact with Dumbledore then, as if to communicate the deeper meaning of his words.

"Yes, indeed, she is. And very talented, too. Well, I think this calls for a little talk between the two of us. Minerva, if you'll excuse us?"

"Headmaster, I think—"

"Yes, I understand, Minerva. Let me talk to the boy alone." His voice had a hint of steel, but his smile carried its own kind of charm, and without saying more, he asked for her indulgence.

Knowing she would probably regret it, but nevertheless unable to refuse his request, Professor McGonagall sighed. "All right, Albus. But don't let him sweet talk you. He's already got most of the professors wrapped around his finger."

"All the female professors, I expect," Albus said cryptically, but continued quickly, "I promise you, Minerva, I am not completely out of my mind. I do know what I'm doing. And I think I can handle one fifteen-year-old student by myself."

Again, Professor McGonagall sighed. "Whatever you say, Headmaster," she said in a defeated tone, and turned back down the stairs.

"Now, young man, I should like to hear your explanation." The Headmaster said quite severely in tone, but the smile never quite left his face. "Shall we go inside?" He made a sweeping gesture to invite the young delinquent into his office. He shut the door behind them, then cracked it ever so slightly to make sure Minerva had left through the lower one.

When he turned, he let out the loud, belly-shaking laugh he had been holding in for the past few minutes. "Oh! I haven't seen anything quite so funny in days. The look on your face when she brought you up here…. Care for a brandy?" He asked, crossing to a sideboard with a decanter and glasses.

Ryan drew a deep breath, then let it out with a laugh of his own. "Thought you'd never ask."

A/N: Well, this turned out to be quite a long chapter, but it took a lot of writing to get in everything I promised would be there. Next time: Hallowe'en, Draco's plan, and a visit from Snuffles….


	5. Transfusion

__

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretenses. He was sorted into Slytherin so that he could spy on Draco Malfoy for the race of the Elves, and to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, our hero played Quidditch really badly, answered some personal questions about his view of Muggles, and placed a hex on Hermione Granger. This last prank landed him exactly where he wanted to be: Dumbledore's office….

Dumbledore wiped his eyes free of tears as he poured two stout drinks. "I must say, Ryan, you do have a way of making our meeting appear legitimate. That was quite a hex you placed on Miss Granger."

"Watching, were you?" Ryan grinned, accepting the snifter.

By way of answer, the wizard picked up an object on his desk. It was a hand mirror, ornately carved out of silver, with a polished ivory handle. "I've found that many of the little trinkets I bewitched in school continue to be very useful as Headmaster."

"Is that—" Ryan began, reaching out in wonder.

"Yes," Dumbledore's eyes danced as he chuckled. "The Mirror of Knowing. I trust you remember."

Ryan swallowed quickly. "How can I forget? It only took you about three months to enchant it. Came in useful back then, too, as I recall. Do you know, I was just thinking about this the other day."

"Really? How very interesting." His eyes danced and he leaped up to open a cupboard. "Do you mind if I show off this as well?"

Ryan came over to look. Inside, a miniature model of the school took up more than half the space. Tiny figures moved through it. "Your pocket Hogwarts! You were still assembling the spells for it when Cygnus and I graduated. You actually got this to work?"

"Not really." Dumbledore sighed. "It's still not quite right; it fails far too often, but it has been overall a nice distraction. In retrospect, a map would have been easier…." Dumbledore brought the brandy bottle back to his desk. He sank into his chair. "Yes, I've been thinking about our boyhood, too, though not half so much as you, I expect." He took a sip of his brandy and smacked his lips. "But I suspect you have not risked Minerva's wrath just to reminisce with an old friend. How are you getting along in Slytherin house?"

Ryan swirled his brandy in his glass. "The Malfoys never change, do they?" He sipped his drink and set down the snifter, leaning forward. "Something's definitely coming, Albus. I don't know what, yet, but I think it's big. And I'll be inside. That little prank just now, I think, will make sure of that."

Albus nodded. Not one to waste time with unnecessary questions, he let his friend and spy unfold events in his own way, providing refills of brandy when appropriate. Ryan told the Headmaster about his infiltration of the house, particularly becoming friends with Malfoy, and of the conversation with Malfoy and Avery, practically daring him to pull the stunt of that evening. 

"So, you think the students are receiving instructions from their parents," Albus surmised when Ryan finished his remarks.

"I'm certain. It will probably mean more hijinks like tonight, but I seriously doubt they'll plan anything more…dangerous. At least, I'll do what I can to make sure their actions involve nothing irreversible."

"Yes." Dumbledore stared into space for a moment, piecing things together. He crossed his ankles on a footstool by his desk, leaning back in his chair. "Have you had a chance to read the _Prophet_?" He asked next.

"A little. There's always a copy in the common room, but sometimes it's rather picked over by the time I get to it. There's really only some subtle clues. Rita Skeeter's not written anything in a long time—I wonder why? And there was that obituary on Hester Wattleby. Accidental death, the paper said. It appeared around the time Snape was absent. I noticed Malfoy's letter came right after Snape returned—I assume it's linked?"

"Yes. Severus tells me that the Dark Lord is moving very slowly, and very carefully indeed. Getting his strength back, I think. And feeling his supporters out for any sign of weakness. He doesn't want any hint of his reappearance to reach official channels. Some of the Death Eaters at the Ministry must have told him that Fudge refused to believe the news. That's to his advantage. On the other hand, he called Severus and some others at a most inconvenient time, just to test them." He topped off his snifter again, and studied the rich colour against the lights of the office for a moment before continuing. "I owe you an apology, Ryan, for all that trouble I gave you over your plan. It seems Severus agrees with you—no, I haven't told him who you are; he has no idea, as far as I know. But Voldemort suspects him, clearly. He can't learn anything useful, and he's not sure what he may have to do to secure Voldemort's trust. I'm working on getting him a pardon, just in case. In the meantime, it looks as if we do need you, after all."

"Is it getting too dangerous for him to be the mole?"

"No, I don't think so. Not yet, anyway. But if you could fool them, be what he was, all those years ago…we might learn much."

Ryan nodded curtly. "I'm working on it." He picked up his drink for another swallow, wondering about his next topic.

"What?" Albus asked with a little smile.

"Hermione Granger."

"Ah."

"I think she may be on to me, Albus. She's scary smart, you know."

"Indeed," Dumbledore chuckled. "She had read more books before starting here than I had done."

"That _is_ scary. Anyway, she—" Ryan stopped, remembering something else. He looked at the door, as if to gaze through it.

"What is it?" Dumbledore sat up.

"I just realized. That's the second time your Professor McGonagall has mentioned my family. Do you think—"

"Nonsense, Ryan. She is head of Gryffindor house and has access to all the records. She would know about the family's history. But I don't think anything specifies that the Pelerands were Anvasse. Back then, it was taken for granted, largely. No one thought about writing it down."

"Right. Sorry. Well, she's another one, though. One slip in front of her…."

"Yes, I thought you might notice. Minerva is one of the most level-headed witches I know. Cool under fire, if you take my meaning."

"Yes. Though she seems awfully heated with me," he grumbled.

Albus brought him back to his earlier topic, refilling their glasses another time. "Now, about Miss Granger?"

"Well, I'm not sure. It could just be the house rivalry at work. At least I hope so. But she seems to hold something else against me…."

Dumbledore laughed. "I know why those two ladies bother you so much," he observed slyly. "They don't automatically respond to your natural charms!" He cackled at the joke. "You're just flummoxed, Ryan, admit it!"

Ryan grinned. "How much brandy have you had, Albus?" He asked, and they both got to laughing. 

Hours later, and slightly tipsier, Ryan emerged from the hidden stairwell by the gargoyle statue. He padded through the empty hallways, avoiding Filch, Mrs. Norris, and the ever-present assortment of ghosts, down to the bare dungeon wall that concealed Slytherin's common room.

Malfoy and Avery were still up, waiting for him. "What happened?" Asked Avery immediately.

"We were getting concerned. They didn't expel you, did they?"

"Hmm?" Ryan blinked to focus on Malfoy. "No, I'm not expelled," he answered, sobering up by the sheer force of will.

"If you're not expelled, then what happened?"

"Oh. Well…detention, same as you." Ryan furrowed his brow. He and Dumbledore hadn't really decided on a "punishment" for his actions. No matter; he was certain McGonagall would ask what was done. He'd have to hope the old wizard would arrange something in the morning. He also hoped it wouldn't be too arduous, but it didn't really matter.

"What on earth were you doing, anyway, admitting it?" Avery asked.

Ryan widened his eyes. "I still had their wands, idiot," he sneered. "They had us dead to rights; no point denying it. Besides, what's the point of pulling a jape like that without claiming the credit? Haven't you heard of honour among thieves?"

Avery scowled, looking uncomfortable. "Well, you landed us all in detention, thanks to your sense of honour."

"Hey, I got detention, too, Malcolm," Ryan retorted hotly, tapping into a reserve of childishness.

"You were up there for a long time, for just a detention." Malfoy observed, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice.

Ryan flopped onto a couch by the fire. He rolled his eyes and did his best to sound unimpressed. "Yeah. Well, I had to talk my way out of anything more serious. Explained that dueling is encouraged at my old school. Develops…I don't know, sharp reflexes or something. Well, the old geezer bought it, but evidently, he felt he had to keep me in there, didn't he, lecturing me. Not the way we do things round here; ought to show more respect, after he stuck his neck out; reputation of the school; disgrace to my family; blah, blah, blah." He swept his arms out, and pumped one fist lewdly to illustrate what he thought of the matter. Then he sat up suddenly, menacing again. "So, next time, we'll have to be more careful. I can't feed him that same line again, how it was a misunderstanding." He held their gaze in the dying firelight, just enough to feel them getting unnerved. Then, he changed moods again, bright and alert. "Speaking of which, lads, what's next?" 

The abrupt subject change worked. Malfoy just smiled enigmatically, and Avery promised, "Soon."

"Whatever," Ryan shrugged. "I'm off to bed. You know, keeping a straight face that long is really very tiring."

Saturday morning at breakfast, the aftershocks of the pranksters' act rippled through the school. To selected Slytherins, they became temporary heroes; to the rest of the school, especially Gryffindor house, they personified evil. Filch came round to their table and informed Malfoy and Avery, with a nasty smile, that they would be assigned to cleaning out the fourth floor storage cupboard that afternoon. "And as for you," he continued, jabbing a finger at Ryan's chest, "you will report to my office tomorrow at 9:00."

Snape, McGonagall, and Flitwick all glared at the three Slytherins from the teachers' table, Snape in particular with a look of pure disgust. All three did their best to ignore the silent reprimands. 

"Look at them," Hermione observed from the Gryffindor table. "Sitting there like they didn't do anything wrong. Can you believe he actually admitted it? It was as if he didn't care—like he didn't think there was any harm. Root through the mud, indeed! If Professor Flitwick hadn't been there, I should have cursed him so hard—"

"Quite right, Hermione," George said as he reached down their way for the butter. "Anyone who'd act like a Gryffindor, only to turn round and do something like that."

"No one hexes our brother and gets away with it."

Just then, Filch came by. "No one sneaks contraband into Mrs. Norris' box and gets away with that, either," he remarked. "Fred and George Weasley! You're to report to my office at 9:00 tomorrow morning for detention."

"Yes, Mr. Filch," they muttered.

"What'd you do?" Ron began, but then said, "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Hermione peered across the Great Hall at the Slytherin table, where Ryan was eating his breakfast. "Say, Fred?" She asked cautiously.

"What?" Came the response.

"If you were caught—even red-handed—by a teacher, would you admit you did whatever it was they think you did?"

"Come again?" Fred peered at her as if she were an alien.

"If you played a prank, and after you did it, a teacher caught you, would you own up, or would you try to talk your way out of it?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought you said. I heard you, Hermione, I just didn't understand why anyone would do that."

Hermione sucked her lips between her teeth. "That's what I thought. He's definitely no normal boy. I don't think he's a student at all."

Ryan enjoyed his freedom that afternoon by going out and testing the acquisition that the owl and falcon had brought him: not a "staff," but a longbow. He retrieved it, a quiver of arrows, a coloured target, and his vambrace and glove from his trunk, then wandered off to see if the old archery range still existed. It was gone. Hagrid must have converted it into an arbor, or one of the other groundskeepers before him. A covered latticework of climbing plants stretched along the northern slope, between the Quidditch pitch and the forest, creating a canopied avenue leading across the back of the hill. It extended some length and ended in a reflecting pool. Ryan strolled past it, musing at the number of students who must have used this at one time or another for trysts. 

As he came around the lattice-work, he decided he could set up a range of sorts by using the area behind the covered arbor, where the hill flattened out considerably. He stood at the back of the pool and carefully paced northeast in a straight line. When he counted forty yards, he turned. Not perfect, but it would serve. He took out an arrow from his quiver and knelt, jamming the point into the earth to mark the spot. Then he walked back to the wooden frame which formed a backdrop for the pool, pausing twice more to mark thirty and twenty with two more arrows. He held the target up against the wood, fished out his wand, and with a simple spell, glued the target in place. Then he walked back to his furthest arrow and, for the first time, strung the new bow.

He ran an appreciative hand over the wood, its gentle curve pleasant and tense under his fingers. The smooth contours and slender grip confirmed the name of the bowyer even more clearly than her maker's mark near the leather wrapping could have done. Maloriel had made this for him to replace a bow which split a short while before he left for the human world. Ryan sighed, thinking about Maloriel, the scent of her which clung to her letters and the falcon which delivered them. Reluctantly, he set thoughts of her aside and concentrated on examining her handiwork.

Resting the bow against his leg, he buckled the vambrace over his left forearm. He wriggled his right hand into his glove and bent to pick up the bow, then pulled and slowly released the bowstring experimentally a few times, checking the wood for any flaws. Finding none, he took a fresh arrow from the quiver and nocked it. With a very controlled breath, he positioned himself in front of the target, drew, and fired.

The arrow flew beyond the target, sailing over the bower and landing somewhere on its vine-covered roof. With a frown and a grunt, Ryan nocked another arrow and aimed somewhat lower. The arrow stuck with a satisfying "thock," still above the target itself, but more in range.

Ryan lost track of how many times he walked back and forth, retrieving arrows, changing the tension of the string on the bow, adjusting the nock point, even walking to one hundred yards to shoot one round from the edge of the forest; several times during the day, he could see players gliding over the Quidditch pitch, practising, but none noticed him. When the sun began to dip toward the horizon, and his muscles complained from the length of time since being used in such a fashion, he felt satisfied with the bow's performance. He stripped the glove and hooked it over his belt, then unstrung the bow. As he walked up to the target, he pulled his marker arrows out of the ground, swiping the points clean with two fingers, and stuck them back in his quiver. A simple restorative charm mended the holes caused by his arrow points; another charm reversed the gluing spell. He rolled the target and slid it into the quiver, then walked back up to the school, removing his vambrace on the way.

Dinner that evening went much the same as breakfast had done. Only a few Slytherins appreciated his conduct of yesternight, and the rest of the school found him completely reprehensible. Luckily, Malfoy and Avery occupied most of the conversation, reciting a litany of the ills forced upon them by Filch.

"He actually expected us to clean it—not just clear away the junk, mind you, but sweep out and mop up the whole cupboard." Malfoy complained.

"And he just watched us the whole time, giving orders." Avery reported.

"Miserable old custodian—do you know, my father told me he's a Squib?" Malfoy looked around for reactions, but was disappointed. Even Goyle, who usually hung on Malfoy's every word, was staring across the hall absently.

"Goyle!" Draco called sharply. The gorilla-like young man started and upset his soup spoon. A fresh spoon appeared on the table.

"Whot?" Goyle asked, blinking himself out of reverie.

"I said: did you know Filch is a Squib?"

"Yeah. Squib. Good one, Draco." But he soon ignored him again.

"What did you do all day, Ryan?" Emma asked at dinner. "You weren't around anywhere."

"No; I went outside." He answered.

Malfoy scoffed. "To do what?"

"To test my bow." Ryan delivered deadpan. This caused another ripple around the table.

"Oh, for bloody—first a sword; now a bow?" Avery commented bitterly. "What's next, Pelerand? Going to slay a dragon for us all?"

Ryan smiled, appearing to consider it. "No, I don't think so," he answered finally. "I'd really rather keep my skin intact. Anyway, it's just a hobby," he continued with a shrug.

"Oh—that's what your girlfriend sent you, then?" Pansy said as if she had solved a great mystery.

"That's right," Ryan nodded and shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth.

Emma scowled, but Pansy went right on. "Seems an awfully expensive gift for someone our age. She must be very well off."

"Er…" Ryan swallowed. "Well, I suppose you could say so." He looked back at Malfoy. "Anyway, I guess my detention's probably worse than yours; else why have me do something different?"

There followed a more philosophical discussion on the merits of various types of detention. At least it shifted the focus off of him again, Ryan thought as they finished their supper.

Ryan stayed with the small knot of Slytherins to get back to the dungeons, but it still didn't save him a few nasty looks and comments from passing Ravenclaws. One third-year even tried to throw a hex at him, but was halted by a familiar-looking Ravenclaw Prefect. It was a relief to go back to the common room and up to his dormitory that night. He stretched to relieve his aching muscles, then wearily got ready for bed, wondering what Filch had planned. It would be worth the detention, though, if it meant he could gather conclusive evidence that he or Dumbledore could use against the Death Eaters. In the morning, he reflected, he'd get up to Filch's office and find out what was in store for him there.

But what he found was Fred and George Weasley.

"What are you doing here?" All three asked at once.

"Detention," all three answered.

"Oh, no," George said. "We're not serving our detention with you."

"Too late," Filch answered him, opening his office door. "That decision's already been made. Come with me."

Filch led them down through the dungeons. They passed the potions classroom, the Slytherin common room wall, and descended into the depths of the castle cellar. He brought them to a room filled with old furniture and musty textbooks long out of date. A thin layer of water covered the floor with slime and silt.

"Yecch," observed the Weasley twins.

Filch snarled. "This is the oldest part of the castle, by the lake. The mortar's going. I need your help to drain the flooding and reinforce the caulk job."

"Without magic?" George asked, clapping a hand to his mouth as soon as he said it.

"Of course, without magic, boy!" Filch growled. "It wouldn't be a detention if it were a five minute job, would it?" The caretaker shook his fist, as if trying to control his rage. "That's what you get for trying to replace Mrs. Norris's litter with…" he pulled out a folded piece of parchment, opened it, and read, "'Gravy Gravel. Turns instantly to tasty gravy with any application of liquid.'" 

Ryan recognized the name from the Weasley's list of joke inventions. Filch continued, waving the inventory under the boys' noses. "Mrs. Norris hates baths. I should have had you do _that_ for your detention, if it weren't that I wouldn't trust you within ten feet of her!" With supreme effort, he calmed himself down. "Now, wait here. I've got some tools in the next chamber…. You can make yourselves useful by moving all that junk to the other side of the room," he ordered on his way out.

But the twins just glared at Ryan.

"I…suppose you want some revenge, for that joke on Ron," Ryan offered.

"Joke?!" Cried George. And,

"What did you think, you'd get away with it?" Exploded Fred.

"It was just a bit of fun," Ryan said crassly. "Look, if it'll make you feel better, go on and take a hit a piece. I figure I owe you that for your brother."

"Harry and Hermione are our friends, too," Fred reminded him. "How about three hits each?"

Ryan smiled coldly. "Sorry, can't do it. People will think I've gone soft. Look, if you want to, we can just fight over it—"

"No, we'll hit you," George assured him. And with that, he punched Ryan in the stomach, hard.

Ryan caved in his stomach a little so the punch didn't knock the wind out of him, but the boy was quick and strong, and it did hurt. What he didn't expect was for Fred to pick up so quickly and swing high while Ryan was doubled over. In an effective team maneuver, Fred socked him squarely in the left eye.

"There, see?" Ryan said when he'd caught his breath. "All better now."

"Not hardly," said Fred. But just then Filch returned with the heavy toolbox. Fred and George were holding a rotting chaise between them, wrestling it into the corner furthest from the flooding wall.

"What happened to you?" Filch asked unkindly.

"Nothing," Ryan said, grabbing a chair and moving it.

Filch didn't ask any more questions. The four of them worked with minimal conversation for the next five hours. When they had done, the wall seemed much stronger, but it was clear that the fix-up would never be exactly permanent. "That will do for winter," Filch said by way of calling them to a halt. "Now, help me carry all this stuff back up to my office, and you can go." He seemed disappointed that he had nothing else for them to do, but grudgingly acknowledged that the work was adequate. "I'll still have to get the Free-Masons in this summer," he grumbled as they trooped back upstairs.

Before they separated outside Filch's office, Fred picked up where he'd left off. "By the way, Pelerand, don't even think of trying to buy any Wizard Wheezes from us," he warned.

"Yeah," agreed George. "As if we'd sell to the likes of you." And they turned their backs on him.

"Oh, my goodness!" Pansy exclaimed as Ryan stepped inside the sliding door to the Slytherin common room. "Your eye!"

"It's nothing," Ryan said brusquely and pushed past her. It did hurt, and it would for several days, but all he had on his mind at the moment was a shower, and a change of clothes.

"Hey!" Goyle called from the opened curtains of his bed, where he'd been reading when Ryan came in. "Who popped you?"

"Weasley."

"Ron?"

"No: Fred. Payback, I guess, for our hex the other night." Ryan stripped his sodden, mortar streaked robe off and let down the wards so he could sit on his bed to take off his boots. They were soaked as well, muddy and caulk-covered. It would take them at least a day to dry, and then he would have to clean them up. Frowning, he finished undressing and shrugged into his bathrobe. "I'm having a shower," he said unnecessarily.

When he returned, feeling much cleaner, Goyle was joined by Malfoy and Avery both. "We hear the Weasley's jumped you," Malfoy said with minimal concern.

"Sort of," Ryan said, feeling a twinge of guilt at misrepresenting the twins. "They were serving their detention at the same time. Filch left the room for a minute; they each took a swing." He grinned at Avery. "I guess I took some of your knocks for you, Malcolm. Something about how no one treats their brother that way…."

Malfoy grimaced with pure loathing. "No one treats one of _us_ that way, either," he promised. "Oh, they'll be sorry," he promised. "That simply decides it."

"There you are!" Emma said one evening, about a week later, following him up to the library. "I'd never have thought to look for you in there. Actually studying? Come on, down to the common room—Malfoy wants to see you."

Ryan pulled up and Emma stopped. "See me? What, do I have to report to him, now?"

"Oh, not you, specifically, silly—well, you and some others. Come on, it ought to be interesting." She laced her hands around his arm in her annoying, possessive way. "I think we're starting soon."

"Starting what?" Ryan asked as he allowed her to lead him down the stairs.

"You'll see." She moved one arm to his waist and herded him along.

As they approached the stone wall which stood in front of Slytherin's common room, Ryan could see Warrington and Bole outside. "Forget the password, fellas?" He asked jovially.

"Standing guard," Bole told him shortly.

"Oh." Suddenly Ryan took more interest in the proceedings.

They opened the door with the password ("Parselmouth") and entered the dungeon-like chamber. All the high-backed chairs were filled, and several chairs which had been brought in were also occupied. The tables were pushed up against one wall; the fire crackled and greenish light bathed everyone in an eerie glow. About a third of the house was gathered.

"Are we ready?" Draco asked. 

Avery answered. "Emma rounded up the last. Warrington and Bole are outside, and the undesirables are off studying elsewhere."

"Good." Draco surveyed the room with a long, appraising stare before he drew breath to begin. "You're all here because you've got some things in common. You're all pure-bloods. As you know, we can't stop the Hat from Sorting an occasional Mudblood into the House, but they're all somewhere else tonight, as you just heard.

"You're also all third-years or above," he continued. "That means you've learned enough to be some use, but there's still a lot more preparation some of you need before you become really effective wizards—or witches," he said, nodding to Felicia Avery and some of the other girls near her. "And finally, you're all here because you feel as we do about the current state of our school.

"Over the next few months, we'll be watching you for signs of weakness. Slytherin is a house with a noble heritage, and one whose alumni have gone on to greatness. The greatest of these met his downfall because of a half-blood upstart. But that doesn't mean it's too late for us to change things around. From now on, the Muggle-lovers will learn to regret their associations. And the Mudbloods…" he gazed around, making eye contact with each student in turn. "We'll get rid of them, one way or another. And as for all of you," he circled the room, "you'd better decide where you stand, if you haven't already.

"Now, we expect you to cooperate, or at least stay out of the way. As I said, we'll be watching you. If any of you tries to talk about this with someone not in this room—Warrington and Bole excepted—we'll hear about it. If any of you tells a teacher, we'll know. For those of you who help us, the rewards could be great. You all heard what Dumbledore said last term, about the Dark Lord. Well, it's time you all learned the truth: he will return, but he needs our help to do it. So begins Operation Transfusion."

Ryan allowed himself a smile as he listened to the Death Eaters' children lay out their plans. So that's how it would be. A similar resistance cropped up during his tutelage in the 1850's, when Muggle-born children were first admitted to school. His own roommate, Geoffrey Bramdon, had faced some prejudice from other students because of his Muggle heritage. But back then, it wasn't just Slytherins who were the problem….

"You can't sit there," A Gryffindor Prefect told them as they came to the table for dinner one night in 1854, their second year.

"Why not?" Cygnus asked immediately.

A fourth-year boy sneered at them. "Because a Prefect told you it's reserved. Go sit down there, with the other Muggle-lovers."

Neither Ryan nor Geoffrey caught the significance of the boy's comment, but the other three—notably Cygnus—clenched their fists and grew angry. "You can't—" Cygnus began.

The fourteen-year-old, who was thin and had unruly black hair, stood up from the table and loomed over the twelve-year-old boy. "We're upperclassmen, Black. We can do what we like, as long as it isn't against school rules. And there's nothing in the rules that says we can't designate this end of the table for pure-bloods, and that end for everyone else." Another Prefect stood to back him up.

"Problem, Potter?" The second Prefect asked.

"No problem, Mullet," he answered, his eyes still locked with Cygnus'. "I was just explaining to these ponces why they can't bring their tainted little friend to sup with us. But we're all done now, aren't we, Black?" 

Despite himself, Cygnus backed down. "Yeah. We're all done. Come on, chaps, let's sit over here, where the air is clearer." He led them to the opposite end of the table.

"What was that about?" Geoffrey asked.

"It was about you," Perseus explained, noting that Cygnus was still too upset to be coherent. He was muttering about the things he'd like to do to Herodotus Potter and his Prefect buddies.

"Me?" Geoffrey said, blushing.

"Well, not you specifically," Meningus countered. "But because you're Muggle-born. Not from a family of wizards."

"It's only been a few years since they began letting truly Muggle-borns like yourself into Hogwarts," Perseus continued. "Some of the older students are still shirty about it."

"Wait," Ryan said. "You mean to say that wizard humans think it's wrong to mix with non-wizards?"

"Well, no—not really," Meningus said, handing Cygnus a small beer. "We've been marrying Muggles for ages. Half-bloods have been admitted for hundreds of years. Though some wizards still think it's wrong. What he means is wizards like Geoff, here, whose parents are both Muggles."

"Why should that make a difference?" Ryan asked, truly confused. Humans differentiating themselves?

"He hasn't any wizarding background, do you see," Perseus said. "So they think he—and other Muggle-borns like him—aren't 'good' enough to be here. Sorry, Geoff."

"Perfectly all right, old chap," Geoffrey replied amiably, but with a glint in his eye. "So, what are we going to do to get Potter?"

"Wait—I still don't understand," Ryan said, and he got up from his chair to approach the Prefects.

"Ryan!" Cygnus warned, but the Anvasse student waved him off.

"Hey, Potter!" Ryan interrupted the older students' conversation.

"What do you want?" The teen asked, not bothering to look up.

"I was just wondering," Ryan continued, "if you'd clear something up for me. You're all humans, right?" They nodded, confused. "And, so are they?" He pointed to where his friends were sitting. Again, they nodded with furrowed brows. "Then, would you all mind moving down toward that end of the table?" He asked, pointing once more to his friends. "You see, I agree with you, about the whole issue of purity of blood. So I'm reserving this section—at the head—for the race with the only pure blood there is. Anvasse."

Potter's face turned red, then purple, then white. He scraped his chair back from the table and rose slowly.

"Thanks," said Ryan, slipping into his seat. "I knew you'd understand."

Potter and two Prefects all grabbed Ryan at the same time. Unfortunately for them, the teachers had just arrived at the high table and immediately, Talus Bartholomew, head of Gryffindor house, was on hand.

"What is the meaning of this?" He fumed. "Mullet! Explain this."

Mullet dropped Ryan's leg, looking guilty. "Nothing, Professor. We were—"

"You were what?"

"He made a racial slur, Sir," Potter volunteered. "Said that Anvasse were of purer blood than Wizards."

"What of it?" Bartholomew glared. "Haven't you studied your magical races history yet? Anvasse are older, more magical, and more highly attuned than humans to magic. In fact, their blood is a component in certain spells, because of its very purity. Still, Pelerand, best not to lord it over the others like that. Now, Mullet, let the boy go and we'll forget about this now."

Cowed, the older students complied, muttering insincere apologies. But Potter and Mullet exchanged a look as if to promise each other, they'd find out exactly what spells called for Elf blood…and then they'd see about acquiring some….

"….So we'll make our first move at Hallowe'en," Draco was saying, pulling Ryan back to the present. "We'll let you know privately what parts you're all to play."

The meeting broke up, various students settling themselves in the common room to get back to their homework. Classes preparing them for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.'s were getting more and more practical, and less and less lecturing. Success or failure depended heavily on getting the reading done ahead, which had most of the fifth-year students up late each night, trying to cover the basics.

For example, the next day in Potions, Snape began:

"Today's lesson will be spent preparing a simple regeneration curative. From your supplies and the store of ingredients around the room, you have access to the following: Absinthe, aconite, bats' wings, black widow venom, bloodworms, dandelion root, dragons' livers, echinacea, gillyweed, ginger, Goblins' teeth, hawthorn buds, hyssop leaves, mandrake root, mercurium, myrrh, scullcap, sheep's marrow, powdered unicorn horn, valerian, witch hazel, wormswort, and of course water. You have the next ninety minutes to prepare your potion, using only these materials. Not all of them are required; and you may combine them in any amounts, but do please remember, Longbottom, the effects of certain combinations, and try, Weasley, to record accurately your measurements and the steps you take to create your potion. You may start…now."

Snape sat at his desk and arranged scrolls from another class to grade. His hooded eyes slid around the classroom wearily as all the students began organizing their ingredients and jotting down possible formulae. His attention flicked from the third-year essays to the students in front of him, particularly when movement attracted his eye. The first time someone left the desks was when Ryan took his cauldron to the tap to fill it. Snape's mouth twitched, as if holding back a smile. The boy knew how to save time. The water, which spouted from a gargoyle's mouth at the tap, was ice-cold all year round, and it would take time to boil it. Ryan could use that time putting together his formula and assembling his ingredients. It was a good plan, one worthy of an older, more experienced student. But Snape's good mood faded when he noticed that Hermione Granger, seeing Ryan return with his cauldron of water, decided to fill her own pot. No sooner had she returned, than Vincent Crabbe, Terrance Frome, Seamus Finnegan, and Emma Naigle also followed suit. While he couldn't accuse them of copying—yet—it was clear that they were following Ryan's lead. He should never have praised him so openly, he thought. But he said nothing.

The silence was punctuated by small sounds of students working. A chopping sound at one desk merged into the smooth scrape of a mortar and pestle at another. Snape marked off a section of a third-year's essay that was patently redundant, only there to fill the required space on the parchment, and moved on to the next roll. He noticed as he looked up that Ryan was combining several ingredients dry, except the dragon's liver, which he had already put into the cauldron. With mild annoyance, he noticed that Crabbe, Frome, Finnegan, and Naigle had all set their dragon's livers to parboil in their cauldrons as well. Snape's eyes narrowed, but he went back to grading the underclassmen's papers.

When he next looked up at the class, Longbottom had finally picked up his cauldron and was taking it to the tap. Ryan was just tipping a mortar-full of powdered ingredients into his cauldron….and right on schedule, Crabbe and Frome did the same. Finnegan, however, stopped to read his formula again, and Naigle was still grinding her Goblins' teeth. 

BANG! The solution in Ryan's cauldron erupted and splattered him with scalding water. Ryan swore. Loudly. Snape was on his feet. "Crabbe! Frome! Take your cauldrons off the heat before—"

BANG! BANG! The other two cauldrons went up as well. The whole class stopped dead as Ryan, still muttering, fetched his wand and began healing his burns. Ignoring the other's cries for the moment, Snape examined Ryan's cauldron. "What happened, Pelerand?" He asked with deceptive calm. 

"Forgot…to add…the hyssop leaves first," Ryan said between gasps as he touched his wand to each of his blisters and healed them. "D—"

"Watch your language," Snape snarled under his breath. "You've automatically failed this assignment, all three of you. And as for you two," he rounded on them with a pained expression, "Ten points each from Slytherin. I should think you'd know by now that cheating may be grounds for expulsion." He fixed his eyes on Finnegan and Naigle long enough to make it clear to them that they were only moments away from getting caught, though he could never prove it now. 

"If you can't heal those burns yourselves, you'd better get up to the hospital wing," was Snape's grudging permission to Frome and Crabbe to clear out of his classroom. With a final look around at the rest of his students, he reminded them, "The clock is still running: you have fifty minutes left."

He surveyed Ryan once more before returning to his desk. "Pelerand, are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, professor," Ryan said, cleaning up. "Just a stupid error." As Snape moved away, Ryan caught sight of Malfoy, grinning widely. He chanced a look over in the Gryffindors' direction, and once again saw Hermione Granger look away just as he turned toward her. Something was definitely not right there.

Students were gathered around the entrance to the great hall as they came up the dungeon stairs for lunch. "What's going on?" Malfoy demanded of a young Ravenclaw. 

"Hogsmeade week-end: October 28. Just before Hallowe'en."

Malfoy smiled. "Perfect timing, as usual," he said to Goyle.

"Yeah," Goyle answered, pushing past the crowds and into the great hall. But once inside, he didn't move. He just stood watching the students who were already seated.

"What's wrong with you?" Malfoy asked. "Looking for someone? Crabbe and Frome won't be back yet from the hospital wing."

"Oh. Right," Goyle said, and followed Malfoy meekly to the Slytherin tables across the hall.

Ryan followed also, Emma at his heels.

"That was a pretty low trick," she observed. "Fixing your potion like that. Did you know that Finnegan from Gryffindor was copying you?"

"Hadn't noticed," Ryan said truthfully. "I didn't know any of you were watching. Not very smart, Emma." Annoyed with himself for making such a juvenile error, his chiding came out too harshly.

"I should think you'd want to help the people in your own house," quipped Millicent Bulstrode, cross because her potion had turned out completely ineffective. At least it hadn't exploded.

"What I do or do not do for my house is my business," Ryan scowled at her. He looked at Malfoy. "I think we need to get out of here," he suggested.

"What about this afternoon's classes?" Crabbe asked.

"What about them? Who cares?"

"I care," Malfoy insisted. "We can't afford you to get in any more trouble, can we, Pelerand? Besides, we need you for Hallowe'en."

"And Hogsmeade will come very soon, really," Pansy offered by way of reconciliation.

Emma waited until Ryan grudgingly agreed to go to class that afternoon and offered to walk up with him. On the way up to the Arithmancy classroom, she said, "I'm sorry about what I said. I thought you'd done it on purpose to trip him up, and didn't know we were following you, too. I guess I didn't realize you really didn't mean it."

Ryan shrugged. His impulse was to reassure her that he was more angry with himself than anyone else, though the Gryffindor in him insisted that cheating was no way for her to learn. But to say any of that wouldn't look right to the Slytherins, so he accepted her apology with a simple, "Whatever."

Hermione was already in the classroom, scribbling furiously on her parchment. When the trickle of students, including Emma and Ryan, filed in, she furtively pushed the partial roll into her bag, and made a show of looking for her textbooks.

The Hogsmeade week-end did come quickly, as Pansy promised. Third-year students and older were allowed to leave the castle and walk down the hillside to the little village, the only all-wizarding community in Britain. Along with the pub, the rail station, and the post office, the village boasted a collection of fine shopping establishments geared toward its juvenile population. Zonko's and Honeyduke's had the finest selection of joke products and candies, respectively, a young witch or wizard could hope to find. 

As they left the castle gates, Draco Malfoy, Malcolm Avery, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Pansy Parkinson, and Stelmaria Nott held back a bit. "Is everyone ready?" Malfoy asked.

"All set," came Stelmaria's answer.

"I've gone over it with everyone," Avery said with a clipped nod.

"Excellent. We'd better keep Ryan away from any of the incidents, though," Draco said in his slow, contemplative drawl, "hold him in reserve, so to speak."

Up ahead, Emma was sticking close to Ryan. "What are you going to buy in Hogsmeade?" She asked.

Ryan pursed his lips. "Hadn't planned on buying anything. I was thinking about a drink, though."

"Butterbeer? At the Three Broomsticks?" Emma asked with no little amount of pleasure.

"That's where all the teachers go, though, isn't it?" Ryan commented. "Isn't there another pub in town?" He asked, pretending he didn't know the village at all.

"Well…there's the Hog's Head, but you don't really want to go in there," Emma said nervously. "Students…don't usually go there."

Ryan scoffed. "Sounds like the right place, then," he said, pulling away.

Emma glanced behind her at the little group of Slytherin activists. She doubled back to cut some of the distance between them, but let them do most of the walking as it was downhill for them. 

When they were in easy speaking distance, Emma said, "Draco! He's going to the Hog's Head."

Malfoy and Avery exchanged worried looks. The Hog's Head was not nearly so friendly as the Three Broomsticks. They didn't serve anything but hard liquor, and it could get rough if one didn't know how to handle things.

"I'd better stop him," Malfoy said. "You oversee things with the Mudbloods. Crabbe! Goyle! Back me up." He looked at Pansy. "Better stay with Emma and Stelmaria, Pansy. The Hog's Head is no place for ladies."

Pansy was so busy simpering over Draco calling her a lady that she didn't protest at all.

"Pelerand!" Malfoy called as they came around the bend toward the High Street. He lifted one hand in a combination of salutation and a signal to wait.

Flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, Malfoy caught up. "Emma says you're interested in the Hog's Head."

"Well, yes, I was thinking about it," Ryan said breezily.

"It's not a good idea, Pelerand," Malfoy advised with a wrinkled nose. "That place is for riff-raff, mostly. You'd only get in trouble. Stick with us, why don't you?"

Ryan smiled coldly. "I know you've done your best to keep me out of whatever you've got planned for today. What's going on?"

Malfoy grinned. "Just a little preview of our mobilization on Hallowe'en," he said cryptically. "About half the Operation plans to hex some of the Mudbloods while we're off school property."

"Oh." Ryan said, impressed. "Very organised."

"Yes. That reminds me: your bow and arrows."

"What about them?"

"Well, when we make our move, we'll have to have somewhere to go. I've found out that there's a tunnel under the Whomping Willow. I know how to stop the Willow from thrashing about, but we need someone to freeze it for us. Do you think you could hit a knot about so big—" he made a small circle with both hands— "without having to get close enough to be in danger?"

"Sure," Ryan said, shrugging. "A tunnel under that enchanted tree? Is that why it was planted?" He asked.

Malfoy was too caught up to notice Ryan's implication. They started walking downhill again as he told the story. "Yes. Two years ago, Dumbledore actually hired a werewolf! The tree was planted here when the werewolf was a student—a student! Can you imagine?—and the tunnel connects to the place where he underwent his transformations. Until, of course, the night he got loose on the grounds in wolf form. He was helping Sirius Black to escape." He pointed to the dilapidated silhouette of the Shrieking Shack. "Leads into that shack, I'm told. We should be able to smuggle them there for safekeeping."

"Right." Ryan answered, wholly intrigued. First take on as a student, and then hire as a teacher, a werewolf? He'd have to ask Albus for the real story someday.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were also in Hogsmeade. They were just coming out of Honeyduke's when Harry heard a voice call his name. He turned, but all he could see was a line of teenage boys, from Ravenclaw. Just as he was about to turn back to Ron and Hermione, he heard his name again, and recognized the voice. It belonged to Cho Chang.

Cho emerged from the cluster of young men around her and took a step toward Harry. All the boys stepped forward as well. With a sigh, she turned on her toes to look up at them all.

"Look," she said, as if having delivered this speech several times before. "I know you're all trying to look out for me, but really, I can take care of myself. Please, do me a favour, clear off for a while. It's all right."

Reluctantly, her self-appointed guards shuffled into the candy store.

Meanwhile, Harry, his insides jumping up and down wildly, had much the same conversation with Ron. "You and Hermione go on; I'll catch you up," he told the red-head hurriedly.

"Right," Ron said with a knowing grin. Harry punched him on the arm playfully. "But remember, Hermione said it was important. Don't be too long, Harry," he said loudly, with teasing brightness. But then under his breath he added, "Not that I'd blame you, mind."

"Go on," Harry said almost desperately, and Ron complied, just as Cho escaped from her escorts.

"Hi." She said shyly.

"Um…Hi." Said Harry. 

"So. I've been wanting to talk to you, you know, since…." They hadn't seen each other since Cedric's memorial service. The Diggorys had arranged a very private funeral, but allowed a memorial to be held over the summer. Harry stayed with the Weasleys for the trip, since the Diggorys also lived in Ottery St. Catchpole.

"Yeah. Listen, about…the Tournament," Harry began. He couldn't quite bring himself to say "Cedric" in front of Cho.

"Look, would you care to have a pint of butterbeer?" Cho asked suddenly. "My treat."

"Huh? Oh—yeah. Sure." Harry walked beside her down the High Street toward the Three Broomsticks in a daze. He wasn't sure he'd be able to drink even butterbeer, the way his stomach kept flopping in on itself. He vacillated the whole way between thinking her offer was a good sign, and a bad one.

"So…" Cho said when they found an empty table and had ordered. "Harry. The thing is…" she laughed nervously. "It feels good to get away from them," she said cryptically. "I mean, they all mean well, I know that, but do you know what it's like to have people watching over you all the time?"

"Yeah, I do." Harry agreed quickly. "That whole year, when everyone thought Sirius was out to get me, I couldn't go anywhere or do anything without—" 

"Sirius?" Cho asked, clearly confused with Harry's familiarity.

"You know—Sirius Black." Harry recovered quickly, making the name sound more ominous than he felt about his godfather. "Anyway, this past summer, too. I'm always being watched."

"From a foot away?" Cho countered. "Never mind them, though. This is nice," she accepted the butterbeer from Madam Rosmerta and took a sip. "Mm." A bit of foam stuck to her upper lip, and Harry thought he might faint.

"You—you have—"

"Oh!" She licked her lips, and Harry felt worse for some reason. "Well, the point is, Harry, I guess—I just don't know how I feel, yet. About anything."

"Oh."

"You understand, don't you?"

"Oh, yeah." But he didn't understand anything, and it showed.

"I like you, Harry—I really do. But…I guess…I'd like to say that if Cedric hadn't…if it were just a case of knowing you both…I mean," she took another sip of butterbeer quickly, wiping her lips this time. "I need some time."

"Oh. I know," Harry assured her. "I wasn't—I don't want to rush you…."

"It's not you. Half those boys out there want to be the one I turn to when I can't take what happened. I'd rather it be you, Harry. I think…you're the only one who'd really understand. But that's not fair, is it? I can't see you until I know I'm past Cedric."

Harry drank his butterbeer, afraid to say anything. The awkward silence stretched between them.

"But," Cho said finally, flashing a smile that sent Harry's stomach somewhere below his feet, "I'd really like it if we could be friends."

"Sure," Harry said softly. Even though he'd never dated anyone, at fifteen he knew the death knell when he heard it. "I've always wanted that, Cho," he heard himself saying.

"Good." She seemed genuinely relieved. "What do you say we ditch the others and go to Dervish and Banges?"

"Um… No. I can't. I promised Hermione and Ron I'd meet them." Harry stood, hoping he could make it out of the pub before throwing up. "Thanks for the butterbeer," he mumbled, and walked away.

The cold air felt good as he walked back up the street to Gladrag's, where Ron stood waiting for him. "Hermione's inside. She said she had to pick something up. Then she has her surprise for us."

"Yeah," Harry grunted sadly.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Ron asked.

"Nothing."

Hermione came out before Ron could press for anything. "Oh, good, you're back. Come on." Hermione led them toward the stile at the end of the road.

"Are we going to the cave?" Ron asked.

"Oh, you guessed," Hermione said, disappointed.

"Well, it's not too hard to figure out," Ron said. "Does that mean—Snuffles!" He called suddenly. Sure enough, a huge black dog was making its way down the rocky hill to meet them, its tail wagging.

The dog barked once or twice in greeting, pausing to sniff their hands and jump playfully to place his paws on their chests. Then he turned and led the way back up to a cave hidden behind a curve in the rocks. They had been here to see him once before, and as then, once they reached the sheltered outcropping, he changed. Instead of a dog, the falsely accused criminal, Sirius Black, stood before them.

He was tall, and still too thin from his years in Azkaban, the wizards' prison, but he looked much healthier than even the end of their fourth term. His eyes were still a bit haunted, but his hair was short again, he was clean-shaven, and apart from the grey, worn robes, he looked quite respectable.

"I brought some food," Hermione said after they exchanged greetings and sat on the floor of the cave. She reached into her bag and pulled out a few sandwiches and her Gladrags parcel. "Where's Buckbeak?"

"He's safe," said Sirius. The gravel was almost gone from his voice, now. "He's at Moony's. Oh, good, you brought it," he said by way of a thank-you, taking the package and the food from her, and tore into a sandwich.

"How is Professor Lupin?" Ron asked.

"Fine." Sirius said with a smile. "So," he said to Hermione. "You wrote; I came. What's the trouble?"

"_You_ wrote to Sirius?" Harry asked Hermione suddenly, in a proprietary manner.

"Well—"

"It's all right, Harry," Sirius said softly. "I actually had to report to Professor Dumbledore, anyway. And I get to see you, in the bargain. The timing works out nicely." He turned back to Hermione. "What did you want to talk to me about?" 

Hermione told him everything she'd learned about the "transfer" student in Slytherin. "I wrote you about the hex, when he just stood there and admitted it in front of both Professors Flitwick and McGonagall." Sirius nodded. "Well, after that, I tried to find out more about him. I wrote to Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and even the Svetskani School in Moscow. None of them have ever had a student named Pelerand; certainly not in the last five years. I looked up the name in Wizarding Who's Who, and all I found was a note saying that the Pelerands 'were the first among the Seven Houses to send selected children to Hogwarts,' whatever that means, and that they have enjoyed…" she reached into her bag and pulled out a parchment full of notes, "…here it is, 'they enjoyed positive relations with the British Ministry up until the turn of the 20th century.' Then it talks about how changes in Ministry regulations and Muggle society led to their withdrawal from wizarding."

"Seven Houses of what?" Sirius asked.

"I don't know. I couldn't find anything about that." Hermione seemed chagrined that any information might not be found, as if the facts themselves were hiding from her.

"But if they haven't been sending their children to school, how can he be a transfer?" Ron said, scratching his head.

"Exactly, Ron," beamed Hermione. "You're really getting the hang of this."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Spare us."

But Sirius seemed quite interested. "So you think he's a Death-Eater?"

"Yes. I thought…maybe you'd heard the name before."

Sirius shook his head slowly. "No. Still, this business of transferring…. And he's hanging around Malfoy, you say?"

"He's worse than Malfoy," Ron snorted. "I bet that ambush was his idea, even. He's always with one of them—Avery, Malfoy, all the kids we know have Death Eaters for parents."

"He never seems to study," Hermione said. "I've only ever seen him in the library that one time. But he keeps passing his classes."

Ron laughed. "Except for last week, in Potions, remember?"

"What happened?" Sirius asked, eating the second sandwich.

Ron explained the incident of Ryan's erupting potion, with Sirius asking for details. "Funny, really, because remember how early on, Snape was real happy with him."

"Snape?" Sirius barked derisively. "Happy with a student?"

Ron nodded solemnly. "He said he was almost worthy of being taught potions."

"That's another thing," Hermione jumped back in. "He seems to know things. Like in Arithmancy. He always knows the answer—well, most of the time."

Sirius held back a smile. "Just because a Slytherin knows the answer doesn't automatically make him a Death Eater in disguise."

"It's not just that," Hermione insisted. "He caught a fish bare-handed. There's what he said about the house-elves, and how he acted when we asked about Slytherin's reputation. And that package he got at breakfast—the bird that brought it. And—and—there's something not right, there, I know it!"

"Yeah, but Hermione," Ron said suddenly, "remember when Snape was absent those times? Pelerand wasn't gone."

"Well, that makes sense, doesn't it? If his mission is to stay close and watch Harry, he wouldn't leave, even if You-know-who summoned the others."

Sirius sighed. "Well, even if it's true, Hermione, what do you expect me to do about it?" He wasn't looking at her, though. He was looking at Harry.

Hermione stopped short. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but no noise came out. "You could look him over," she said finally. "He's here, in Hogsmeade. You could—"

"I could what? Hermione," Sirius continued, embarrassed, "I can't go running after a student just to have a look at him. Even if I weren't an escaped convict, I still have my own affairs to attend."

Hermione bit her lips, thinking. "Well," she said slowly, "you're going to see Professor Dumbledore, right? You could ask him."

Sirius tore his eyes away from Harry long enough to give Hermione a good, hard look. "All right," he conceded with another sigh. "I'll ask Dumbledore if he knows anything about this boy. But that's all I can do, I'm afraid."

It was enough for Hermione. She seemed to think that, now that Sirius was on the case, everything would come out right.

"Harry," Sirius coaxed. "You're being awfully quiet over there. Anything wrong?"

Harry shrugged. "No, I'm fine," he lied unconvincingly.

Sirius gazed up at Ron with an unspoken request. "Er, Hermione, we'd better get back to Hogsmeade," Ron said, tugging at the bushy-haired girl's arm. They left the cave.

"Harry," Sirius repeated. "What's troubling you? Come on, test out my skills as a godfather."

"Nothing," Harry insisted.

Sirius studied him with a cocked eyebrow. "Hmm. This nothing: does she have a name?"

Harry looked up too quickly to deny it. "How—"

"Well, it's been a while, Harry, but I hope I can still recognize girl trouble." He leaned against the cave wall, his attention fixed on the boy wizard. "So what is it?"

Harry found himself telling Sirius in a tumble of words about Cho, from his first match against her to asking her to the Yule ball, up to his conversation that afternoon. As he had through the Gryffindor common room fireplace last year, Sirius listened without interrupting until Harry came to a halt. When he drew breath to speak, Harry could tell he was trying to think of something encouraging and paternal to say.

"Well, Harry, you're absolutely right. 'Let's just be friends.' It's the kiss of death," Sirius said with an involuntary shudder. "Except—she did say something you might take comfort in. It's like this: when a relationship ends—especially so suddenly like that—it takes time to trust again. It's hard to explain, but usually, the first person one turns to, romantically, doesn't turn out to be the right one. Oh, I'm awful at this," he said, standing up and pacing the cave. "Look: you say she said, she can't see you until she's sure she's past Cedric."

"Yeah," Harry said dejectedly.

"Then give her that time, Harry. Let some other boy be the one whose heart she breaks. Let her come to you when she's ready."

"But what if she never is?"

Sirius shrugged. "That's a chance you'd take either way, isn't it?" He walked over and offered Harry a lift up off the floor. "The only consolation I have, Harry, is that it doesn't get any easier to deal with women. But at least you won't be a teen forever."

Harry smiled, not exactly ready to be happy, but not feeling sorry for himself, either. Just then, they heard shouting outside the cave entrance.

"What on earth—" Sirius began, but then Ron came hurtling through the mouth of the cave.

"It's the Slytherins! They're attacking all sorts of students!"

A/N: We'll get to Hallowe'en next time. I would like to thank Miss AmyK for the insights regarding young Albus and all her help on my dangling plotlines. My pet peeve of the day: it's editing, not beta-reading, and A'jes Blue has been doing a lot of that for me! And since I've gotten this comment twice now, I'll say it here: Yes, I know that Brits don't have baseball. But Muggle Brits do have the Internet and Satellite telly, even in 1995. You'll see that Ravenclaw captain again, I promise, and his sports knowledge will make sense. Hang in there until the next chapter—I'm writing as fast as I can. 


	6. The Invitation

__

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretenses. He was sorted into Slytherin so that he could spy on Draco Malfoy for the race of the Elves, and to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, Draco Malfoy convened a terrorist movement among the Slytherin students. Everyone went to Hogsmeade just before Hallowe'en, where Harry met Cho, with disappointing results, and Hermione surprised him and Ron with a visit from Sirius Black. But just as godson and convicted wizard finished their talk, Ron burst in with disturbing news….

"It's the Slytherins! They're attacking all sorts of students!"

Before they reached the cave entrance, Sirius was a large black dog again. 

"Ron, what did you see?" Harry asked.

"Hermione and I walked back down the hill, and we saw some green smoke and sparks in the air. At first, I thought someone might have set off some Filibuster's Fireworks, but then when we got lower, we could see that students were hexing each other. Between the two of us, we spotted a dozen Slytherins, all dueling with students from other houses. Even your Cho Chang, Harry. She was fighting Felicia Avery. I think she was winning," he added quickly, "but it didn't matter much because that crowd of boys she was with all joined in. I went to get you and Sirius."

They saw Hermione at the bottom of the hill, waving to them madly. "It's all over," she told them when they reached her at the stile. "They all ran off, into the nearest shops, at the sight of a second cloud . Black, this time, not green. I think Malfoy signalled them," she continued quickly. "He wasn't fighting anyone. He was watching the entrance to the Three Broomsticks. That's when the smoke appeared—when the door opened and teachers came out."

"Then what?"

"Professor DuBois and Professor Sinistra rounded up all the students in the street and took them back to Hogwarts."

"And the others?" Harry asked.

Hermione shrugged. "Still inside. I expect the professors will get their names from the ones who were attacked."

Disappointed at missing the action, Ron suggested they go up to the castle to find out what was going on. The dog hung back and padded through the slowly filling street, back toward the cave.

"Come on," Malfoy said inside the Homunculus Herbarium. "All clear," he said to Avery, Goyle, Crabbe, and Pelerand.

Ryan looked out the window. A large black dog was walking past. "Be there in just a minute," he said, as if deciding whether or not to purchase a smudgepot for herbs.

"Oh, come on. We have to get back before they come looking for us." Malfoy grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the store.

Ryan made sure he was standing in the middle of the group, even though the dog was generally heading in the opposite direction.

"What's wrong with you?" Crabbe asked.

"Don't like dogs, that's all," Ryan supplied curtly.

Crabbe snickered. "That's all right," he assured the other boy. "I hates bats, meself. The way they don't make no sound. That's creepy, that is."

Dumbledore addressed the students at dinner that night. "I am most distressed by the conduct and behaviour of some of you this afternoon. Your days in Hogsmeade are privileges, and if you cannot behave yourselves in the village, I shall have no choice but to cancel all planned Hogsmeade trips for all students." He held up a hand to dispel the general groan. "Now, I'm sure that no one wants to be responsible for ruining Hogsmeade for everyone," he continued with a glance over his half-moon glasses that lingered on every table equally. "So I hope that you will bear these consequences in mind should any further….incident occur." He sat and the food appeared on the tables.

"Does that mean they're ignoring it?" Pansy asked Draco as they filled their plates.

Draco shook his head. "No, some of the others identified a few of ours," he explained. "Dumbledore's sending a letter home about it. And we'll be losing points, of course." He snorted. "As if letters home will make any difference."

"What's planned for Hallowe'en then?" Ryan asked casually.

"Well, it's a Tuesday, so we can't do much. We don't have a lot of time between class and dinner. You'll see."

Hogwarts' Great Hall appeared decked out as usual Tuesday morning, in preparation for the traditional Hallowe'en feast. But by dinner that evening, several students gave the place a makeover. Instead of being pleasantly filled with giant pumpkins from Hagrid's pumpkin patch, hanging bats, and dancing skeletons, the hall looked like a haunted house. The jack-o-lanterns were burning with an eerie green fire that engulfed them without consuming them. The enchanted ceiling was occluded by thick stormclouds, threatening rain and lightning. And stretched across the hall, instead of the house banners, was a large, glowing sign which read in bright red lettering, dripping like wet blood, "MUDBLOODS GO HOME! THE TRANSFUSION BEGINS."

A group of Hufflepuff second-years was the first to discover the vandalism. Before they could get any teachers to repair the damage, however, many other students arrived, producing mixed reactions and no end of shocked milling about in the entrance hall.

The teachers lost no time in restoring the hall to its intended state, but by then, there had been too many witnesses. The upperclassmen spoke to each other in hushed tones about the Chamber of Secrets and the attacks on students three years ago, pointing out the similarities and blaming Slytherin for the sentiment—with justification, if not any proof.

From that moment on, various Muggle-born students found themselves the victims of anonymous death threats; jinxed objects in their classrooms, the hallways, and sometimes even their personal possessions; and general torment. Operation Transfusion held meetings in secret every few nights, though sometimes it was only a core group who attended. Ryan made sure he was included in them all. He rarely took the lead in any of the action, but noted their plans and kept a close watch on the Prophet for corresponding trouble in the news. They talked about the little things, but the large attack was only ever mentioned in vague, peripheral ways. "The Event," Malfoy dubbed it enigmatically. Warrington, Bole, Crabbe, and Goyle were assigned to strong-arm Slytherins who were not terrorists and make them afraid to report those who were. The Operation was extremely careful not to be observed when planting any seeds of discontent, and though the teachers tried to discover who was behind the whole thing, no one would tattle. 

Ryan sent away to a Muggle sporting goods shop for some archery supplies he would need to open the tunnel under the Whomping Willow. It was tricky, getting the supplies sent to the exchange where the wizarding post office could forward them to him, but necessary. He had no idea when Malfoy needed him to shoot the knot on the tree, but he knew that a regular arrow probably wouldn't accomplish what Malfoy wanted. The knot had to be pushed with some force. His arrows would slide into the trunk without impacting on it very hard. So Ryan ordered something that would do the job, and waited to be included on the plan.

Then one Sunday in mid-November, before an afternoon match against Gryffindor, Malfoy said, "Coming to watch the game, Ryan?"

"Sure," Ryan said, nodding, not wanting to decline an invitation which might lead to better information.

"Come on," Malfoy said, rising from the table. "Walk with me out to the pitch." Crabbe and Goyle must have had earlier instruction to stay away, for they did not move. Of course, Goyle was staring off into space again, as he had been doing from time to time for some while. Or Malfoy could as easily have decided that Ryan was enough protection to not require their services all the time.

They headed out to the locker rooms by the Quidditch field. "Any idea what you're doing with your holidays, Pelerand?" Malfoy asked cryptically.

Ryan frowned. "Stay here, most likely. It's too far to go home for that short a time. Why?"

"Just wondering," Malfoy said. "My father's keen to meet you—I've told him about you. He's holding a house party over the holiday, for some of our friends—people interested in our cause—and he suggested that I invite you to stay with us for the whole holiday."

"Oh," Ryan said with genuine surprise. "That's generous of him," he continued. "You're sure I wouldn't be in the way?"

Malfoy shrugged. "We've got more than enough room. Think about it." He turned back as they reached the locker room entrance. "It could open doors for you, Ryan," he promised earnestly. "Think it over. Let me know."

Ryan thought about it for all of two seconds, but he would wait a couple days to get back to Malfoy and accept the invitation.. It was exactly the opening he and Dumbledore hoped for. As he made his way into the stands, though, his mind was as far from Quidditch as it could be. He was thinking about the first time anyone asked him what he did over their breaks. It was Albus himself who wanted to know about Elves on holiday….

Fourteen-year-old Jorian Peleranel settled himself into his bed and was just setting the wards around it when he heard a timid knock at the dormitory door. Sighing, he lifted the wards with an impatient gesture and answered the summons.

"Albus?" He said, gazing at the eleven-year-old. Albus Dumbledore stood before him in a wool dressing gown, linen nightshirt, and soft slippers, his face lined with doubt.

"May I speak with you privately, Pelerand?"

"Certainly. Come in," he offered, gesturing toward the red curtains of his bed. The other fourth-year boys were down in the common room still. They sat. "What's troubling you?"

The boy didn't even try to deny his distress, but responded with his own question by way of preamble. "Ryan, you usually stay for the Christmas holidays, don't you?"

"Yes. What is it?"

Albus shifted his weight on the bed. "I want to stay, but I don't think my parents will be happy about it. How did you convince yours—I mean, what reasons can I use?"

"Why do you want to stay?"

Young Albus rubbed his eye absently underneath his spectacles. "Well, it's not so much wanting to stay—it's not wanting to leave."

Ryan smiled. "All right. Why don't you want to leave then?"

Not for the first time, Albus looked a little uncomfortable. "I have an older brother, Aberforth. I don't much like being home when he's home, too."

"And he'll be home over the holiday?"

"Yes. He's bringing a girl with him, Mother says—I think he wants us all to meet her because he's going to ask her to marry him. And I'd just be…in the way. Besides, I'd much rather stay here—it's ever so much more interesting than at home. So I thought, if I had some good reasons to stay here, and told them those…." He peered up at the older student. "Why do _you_ stay?"

Ryan shifted a bit, releasing a half grunt, half laugh of soft air. "Well, for one thing, it's easier to stay. Too much traveling back and forth."

"Don't they miss you at Christmas?"

"Albus. I don't celebrate Christmas. Anvasse aren't Christian. Solstice is a rather minor festival for us."

"But you go to church every Sunday just like everyone else," he observed.

"Yes, because it's mandatory attendance; but I sit in the back and read."

"Oh." He absorbed this new fact and then posed another question. "Well, what's it like, then? Where you're from? Have you got any brothers?"

"Sort of." Ryan muttered. "I've got a number of half-brothers, and one full sister. She's younger than you are by a good bit."

Albus frowned. "How's that? Half-brothers?" Then he smiled. "Oh, I see. Your father was married before?"

"No." Ryan said, a bit embarrassed. "Anvasse—don't marry. Well, not in the sense you mean. My father and my mother declared an alliance between their Houses, in order to produce heirs for each. But they both have other children from other partners. Understand?"

Albus nodded, thought about it, and then said, "No."

"How can I…?" The myriad politics of Elven society confused Ryan himself sometimes, and he wasn't about to begin discussing sexual intricacies with a first-year. "Here. My father had a…relationship, with a female, years before I was born. They had a child or two—my older half-brothers. But she wasn't a member of a Ruling House, so their children aren't eligible to rule. In order to produce a…legitimate…heir, Father had to establish an alliance with the daughter of one of the other Houses. Which he did…and I'm the result. They had two children: the first born is the heir to our father's House, and the second is the heir to our mother's."

"How many houses are there?" The boy asked, wholly fascinated and forgetting his original mission.

"Seven Ruling Houses, and a whole lot of minor ones, most of which are related in some way to a Ruling House."

"And which house is yours?"

"The names wouldn't mean anything to you. But…" he debated telling the boy. "Well, if you must know, I was born into the Second House, we call it. Ours is the house that currently leads the council of the seven."

"So, one day you'll lead the most important of the Elven houses?"

"Well, no, not really." Ryan blushed. "By the time I'm head of my house, it won't be Council Leader anymore. They take turns. But it's one reason I'm here, to learn human magic—to understand the way the outside communities function. Because some day I'll be responsible for working with them."

"That's why you take Muggle Studies, too, isn't it?"

Ryan nodded. Albus seemed delighted, and his eyes twinkled merrily. This kind of discovery clearly pleased the boy more than any other activity. No wonder he preferred the hallowed halls of learning, the library filled with books, and the labs where he could tinker to his heart's content, to his home.

"Ruling House…does that make you a prince?" He asked suddenly.

Ryan winced. "Sort of. But, do me a favor: don't let on to anyone else, all right?"

"Oh, I see." Albus nodded, seeming much more mature than his eleven years. "You don't want anyone to know you're important?"

"Not really, no."

"Could I…" he paused and thought. "Could I tell my parents? When I write them?" Ryan smiled. So they were back to the original problem. "It might make a difference to them, that even foreign royalty stay here over the holidays, and that there are older students."

Ryan thought of his mother's request before the year started, to look out for the young wizard, but not to make it too obvious and hurt the boy's pride. Albus may not know it, but Mrs. Eleanora Dumbledore of Hampstead and the Anvasse princess Tireliana were acquaintances. "It might, at that," he told the boy. "Go on to bed, now; you can send them an owl in the morning. There's still a week or two left to sign up before the end of term."

He escorted the boy to the door. They exchanged goodnights and Ryan climbed back into bed, setting his wards for the second time that night….

Sitting in the cold Quidditch stands between Emma and Crabbe, Ryan also wondered what Draco Malfoy had told his father. He worried a little that the older man might not believe his son's friend to be a legitimate student, but it was a chance he would have to take. He could still back out if Snape's situation changed, or if Dumbledore thought it would be an incredibly bad idea. Thinking of which, he devised another trip to Dumbledore's office for himself.

Next morning, Ryan took his sword and, instead of his customary dungeon, he went up into the entrance hall, into the alcove where the first years awaited Sorting every year. He deliberately left the door open, so he was sure to get caught. He began his stretch and then his workout, wondering how long it would take for someone to come along and discover him. He couldn't have asked for a better candidate than Peeves.

The poltergeist came speeding along the corridor humming to himself. When he saw Ryan wielding the sword in a complex pattern of parries, cuts, and thrusts, he cried out, "Ooh! You is breaking rules, you is." And then he screeched in a sing-song voice, "Pelerand is a right young git, / A handsome fellow with a rapier wit, / But swords in school / are against the rules, / so Pelerand will get caught with it!"

By this time, as Ryan expected, Peeves' yelling attracted the attention of the nearest teacher. Teachers, more accurately. Professor Snape climbed the stairs from his office, sweeping into the entrance hall alcove with his sneer fully on display. Ryan took it as a good sign; for some reason, he enjoyed nettling the unpleasant potions master. Unfortunately, Peeves had also alerted Professor McGonagall, whose pinched mouth showed even worse disapproval than Snape. 

"Hand it over," Snape said in a strangled voice, clearly forcing himself to stay calm before the Deputy Headmistress. Ryan shrugged, and twisted the weapon to extend the grip toward Professor Snape. When the black-haired teacher snatched the sword away, Ryan turned away to fetch the sheath.

"Stay right there," Professor McGonagall ordered.

Ryan ignored her and stood up slowly, fixing his eyes on Snape. "Don't you want the sheath?" He asked, as if anyone would be insane to walk around with a naked blade. He held the sheath out to the head of his house. Snape, looking perturbed, fumbled the thin leather over the slim blade. As it snapped in place against the hilt, both teachers said in unison, "Dumbledore."

"Are you wearing slippers, Pelerand?" Snape asked in disbelief as they trooped up the stairs to the Headmaster's turret. 

It took Ryan a moment to answer. He'd been wearing them whenever possible since his detention; no one had taken exception before. "Yes," he answered finally, seeing that Snape was deadly serious. "I don't have any outdoor classes today, Professor," he continued, trying to mitigate the situation.

"So you thought, 'Why bother?'" Snape asked in an oily, falsely understanding way.

"Something like that," Ryan answered cautiously. He glanced at Professor McGonagall, who unlike their last trip to Dumbledore, was furiously silent. If her lips were pressed together any further, they would have merged. "Is…is that a problem?"

"Problem?!" Snape hissed vehemently. "Certainly not. Why should flouting school rules and dress codes be a problem?"

Ryan stifled a laugh. "I'm not wearing boots, Professor. It's not the end of the world."

"Combined with running around armed to the teeth, it very well might be," quipped Snape.

They reached the gargoyle statue and Snape bit out the password, as if the words "Fizzing whizbee" offended him every bit as much as Ryan's indoor slippers. They mounted the moving stairway and rode up to the top of the tower.

"In many respects," Snape told Dumbledore, "Pelerand is an excellent student. I'm sure you'd agree, Minerva. But his flagrant disregard for the multiple warnings he has received…his inability to adapt to the standards of conduct we uphold here…It pains me to lose a good potions student, but I recommend you approve my request to expel him."

Dumbledore looked down at Ryan benevolently. It was all both men could do not to break up in helpless laughter at the look on each other's faces. "Severus," he said slowly, "I find that a little extreme, even for you. What exactly has the boy done to deserve expulsion?"

Snape drew a steadying breath before continuing. But to his surprise, Professor McGonagall spoke up first. "He's a disruption. Surely you don't think, Albus, that the harassment of all those students is something our children would devise on their own? Look at his record. It's no surprise that he was asked to leave Durmstrang, or Nördskolr. And using a weapon on school property—really, Albus, can we let that kind of thing happen, especially now, with the way things are?"

The Headmaster sighed. "Mr. Pelerand, did you intend to harm anyone with your sword?"

"No, sir," Ryan answered truthfully. He behaved with perfect contrition, gazing up at the Headmaster like an angel. All he needed was the halo.

"And have you, in your time at Hogwarts this year, ever drawn your weapon with the intent of malice?"

"No, sir," Ryan said, very happy that he had threatened Trent with the pommel only.

"And do you have an explanation for your…unusual interpretation of the school dress code?"

"Yes, sir." He waited for a nod from Albus to explain. "After my detention, my good boots needed extensive repair. I had to wait for the Hogsmeade weekend to take them to the cobbler. I haven't got them back yet. And my second pair of boots are nowhere near as comfortable, sir. So, I've been wearing these inside—that is, on days when I'm not going outside." He flexed one foot. "They've still got a sturdy sole, though. I didn't think anyone would care." He shrugged slightly, hoping neither Snape nor McGonagall would notice the spark of communication that passed between the white-haired old wizard and himself.

Albus grinned. "Well, that's that explained. Now, about this sword. I'll have to confiscate it, I'm afraid. It is against school policy to keep any weapons not expressly required for spellwork. I trust we will not need to cover this ground again?"

"No, sir," Ryan said with a polite shake of his head.

"Severus? Minerva?"

Snape scowled. "What about the students who are being harassed?"

"Ah, yes." Dumbledore smiled. "Perhaps, I should ask the boy privately about that. Would you excuse us?" He motioned, and the door opened. Smiling over both professors' protests, Dumbledore ushered them out. When he was sure the stairwell had carried them far enough down that they could not reverse themselves, he shut the door and regarded his friend again.

"That was rather obvious, don't you think?" He asked with a gleam in his eye.

"Ah, but I'm willing to squeal," Ryan assured him, and continued in a childish voice. "I promise, Mr. Headmaster, sir, I'll tell you all about what's happening in Slytherin. I'll be good, sir, and then you won't have to expel me." He grinned.

Dumbledore laughed. "Is that how you used to avoid detentions from Bartholomew?"

"Who says I avoided them?" Ryan looked back at the door, and got to laughing. "But honestly, Albus, could your Snape take himself more seriously?"

"He's under some pressure," Dumbledore said kindly, and Ryan sobered.

"Right. How are things going on that front?"

Albus shrugged. "He's received no direct instructions. All his orders are coming through other channels, and they don't amount to much. He's quite frustrated. But you came here to tell me about what's happening. Something big, I trust, not just this Operation Transfusion? Though, I wouldn't mind hearing about that, whatever you know."

Ryan nodded. "First of all, as you guessed, it's absolutely their work. I also saw the letter to the editor in the Prophet, calling for a new order. It was unsigned, of course, but clearly whomever wrote it also has knowledge that students are being harassed because of their birthrights. So, their parents are at least condoning their actions, if not directing them."

"Yes." He sighed. "I hoped we could avoid such unpleasantness here again."

"It takes time, Albus. It's a fight you may never win, only forestall. But," he said, warming to his topic, "there's more going on. As you said, they're planning something big. Probably not until after the holidays, I'd bet; this is all just a build-up. They know terrorist tactics, Albus. All these threats, the harmless annoyances, they culminate to something. Malfoy asked me to be prepared to trigger the knot on the Whomping Willow."

"So, Peter told them about the tunnel, did he?"

"If you say so," Ryan said, not catching the reference. "Leads to a shack in the village—is that right?"

"Yes." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. He could tell Ryan was bursting to ask about that development, but stayed focused on the report first.

"Well, I think they plan to use it as a hideout of some kind. Anyway, that's why I could let you have the sword, but I'll need to keep the bow."

"I see." The Headmaster gestured. "There's something else, or you wouldn't have risked getting sent up here."

"Yes. Malfoy's invited me to his family manse for the holiday. Said his father wants to meet me. Apparently, they're trying to recruit. I plan to accept, of course. I haven't yet, though. Wanted you to know."

"Really?" Albus stroked his beard. "Curious. Severus said Lucius would be hosting a get-together. I didn't realize he'd be inviting the younger set. Makes sense, though." He sighed heavily. "Yes, well, it should be interesting to see what they tell you. But do be careful." He smirked. "After all, when a fifteen-year-old witch can figure you out…."

"Oh, no," Ryan groaned. "Don't tell me—Miss Granger?"

"In a roundabout way. She sicced Sirius Black on me to ask about you. He felt damn foolish, too, let me tell you. Fortunately, I didn't have to pretend be stern with him, unlike some operatives I could mention. I simply gave him my word that you are not a dark wizard."

Ryan shook his head as if to clear it. "Wait—I don't understand. Back up. How could she know Sirius Black? Last I heard he was still a fugitive."

Dumbledore began to explain. 

Downstairs, Snape paced the corridor while McGonagall tapped her foot on the floor and her wand against her folded arms impatiently.

"What is taking him so long?" Snape hissed. "It's not that hard to get information out of a student, even one as cagey as Pelerand."

Professor McGonagall bit her tongue over the notion of Snape implying that a student was disagreeable. Meanwhile, he did have a point. The bell would ring soon for the first class, and Pelerand had either be ready to attend it, or packing his bags by then.

"I'm going back up," she announced. "Fizzing Whizbee," she said quickly, and the gargoyle opened to reveal the stairs. "Coming, Severus?"

Professor Snape curled his lip. "No. I've made my recommendation. If the Headmaster chooses to ignore my warnings, I won't waste any more time on him." He stalked off down the stairs back toward his office.

Professor McGonagall stepped back on the revolving stairwell and crossed her arms. The stairs spiraled up on their own and she heard the stone wall slide shut softly behind her. As she rode up the steps, she reached up and gently massaged some of the tension out of her neck. She rarely agreed with Severus, but in this student's case…his record, his flip manner: everything about him suggested trouble. And with the Dark Lord back among the living, it would do no one any good to have a troublemaker of his magnitude fomenting discord. 

As she approached the top of the stairs, however, she heard the most unexpected noise coming from the Headmaster's office. It was…laughter? Two people: one unmistakably Albus, with his slightly wheezing chuckle that worked its way into a belly-shaking howl; the other a low, sensuous rumble which ended in a pleasant sigh. It wasn't a young man's laugh at all, but a confident, mature laugh, a self-assured sound: comfortable, appreciative, and, yes, even sexy. Yet the boy hadn't left Albus's office. Was someone else there, without her knowing? Impossible. Not meaning to eavesdrop, but unsure of whether to interrupt, she listened for a moment.

"You mean to say she asked him to come here just to find out about me, because she thought it would protect Harry? All because she couldn't find out anything more than the Seven Houses?"

"It's true, Ryan. Oh, she's a powerful enemy. You'd no idea when you took this on, had you?" Albus said, the laughter apparent in his voice even through the solid oak door. That was quite enough for Minerva McGonagall. She flung the door open on the scene.

"Just what has he taken on, Albus?" She demanded.

The men turned their heads at the same time. McGonagall met their amazed, guilty expressions with a glare so penetrating neither could speak. Her right hand grasped her wand in a reflexive pre-dueling stance, as if ready to attack at the first sign that the student had somehow confunded the Headmaster. Unlikely, perhaps, but her protective streak for both Albus and the school was in full swing. Yet the look on both faces suggested that of a child caught with one hand in the cookie jar. Watching her—poised to strike, impatiently awaiting any sort of explanation—they did something she never expected: they began laughing.

"Albus!" She snapped after the shock of seeing him giggle had passed. "I demand to know what is going on here!"

"Quite….quite right, Minerva…." Dumbledore managed between fits of laughter. "You may as well….come in. Is Severus out there, too?"

"No," McGonagall said, recovering her composure and shutting the door behind her. "I came to find out what was taking so long. The first class will begin soon. But instead of disciplining this young man, I find….I don't know what I find. Albus? Please explain."

The two sobered visibly, and Albus nodded permissively to Ryan. Ryan stood to surrender his chair. "Perhaps I should introduce myself properly, Professor. I am Jorian Jorianele Melianele Peleranel, scion of the House of Sorolor, heir to that House by birthright from His Highness, Jorian Melianele of the same, and by compact of Her Highness, Tireliana of the House of Nerolon. At your service." He bowed low and offered his hand.

The transfiguration professor placed her hand lightly on top of Ryan's, but began to wobble a bit at the knees. Ryan guided her into his empty chair. "An Anvasse?" She asked faintly.

"Yes, Minerva," Dumbledore said. "And one of the last to attend Hogwarts. Ryan went to school here three years ahead of me."

This was too much for Professor McGonagall. Fortunately, she revived before Dumbledore could even fish out his wand, much less mutter, "Ennervate."

"Let me get this straight," she said slowly. "You are actually older than Albus?"

"Yes," Ryan said with a sheepish smile. "But according to my grandfather, I'm still very young."

"But…the Anvasse withdrew from human contact, almost a century ago," McGonagall protested. "Muggle advancements—the changes in magical laws—magical creatures—wands—" she continued incoherently.

"Ryan is one of the few Anvasse who still travels among human society," Albus explained gently. "He gathers intelligence for the Council to use howsoever they deem appropriate."

"We are not completely gone, do you see," Ryan expanded. "The Council has adopted a policy of observation. There are a few of us who actually enjoy the company of humans, and we bring back what we learn. It may be that a day will come when the Anvasse decide to return. Until then, we like to keep in touch." He favoured her with a lop-sided grin. 

"I contacted the Council over the summer, Minerva," Albus said. "I hoped they might take an official position on the return of Voldemort. Instead, they sent me Ryan."

"I convinced Albus that the only way to force the Council to make a decision was to gather up to date information about the state of affairs in the wizarding world. To do that, I posed as a student. It's working, too. The Slytherins have included me in their plans, and I'm about to mingle in the parents' society, as well."

McGonagall listened with equal parts alarm, fascination, and awe. "I—But I—I don't understand," she managed finally. "Severus—"

"Severus is experiencing some difficulties, Minerva, as you know. In the meantime, Ryan has provided us with a fresh face to infiltrate their circles. He is in a unique position to gain access to the information these students are given by their parents."

"But—Albus, why didn't you tell any of us?"

"That's my recommendation," Ryan jumped in to save face. "I felt the illusion would be better—that is, the 'cover' would be deeper—the less people there were who knew the truth. Only Albus and I—and Professor Binns—remember that I ever went here."

Albus started. "Heavens! I'd forgotten all about Binns."

"It's all right—I visited him after the first day and explained, but made him promise to keep it to himself."

"Hm," said Minerva, and both men were glad to see that she seemed to be getting her spirit back. "And am I to understand that you arranged this meeting so that you could report to the Headmaster?" Ryan nodded. "Well, so now we know why you've been such a troublemaker, Mr. Pelerand. But what on earth were you two talking about when I came back upstairs?"

Laughing again, Albus lost no time praising their prize student, Hermione Granger. 

At that moment, however, Hermione Granger wasn't pleased at all with Sirius's hastily scrawled note:

__

Hermione,

I spoke to Dumbledore. I'm sorry I couldn't meet you kids again, but he had another mission for me, semi-urgent. Anyway, I did ask him about your mystery man, but all he said was, 'Ryan Pelerand is no more a dark wizard than you or I, Sirius.' Hope that will satisfy you.

Tell Harry I'll try to catch his next Quidditch match, if I can. Do let me know if anything really important turns up.

Sirius

"I'll bet he didn't even ask about the Seven Houses," said Hermione to Harry and Ron when they came in from Quidditch practice on the afternoon of Sirius' owl. "I'll bet he didn't really believe me," she continued. "We'll just have to do this the hard way, then."

"What do you mean, we?" Ron asked.

"If Professor Dumbledore says he's all right, Hermione, I don't think we ought to worry about it anymore," Harry said softly. "After all, you yourself said to let them take care of it."

"Yeah," agreed Ron, and mimicked her warning to Harry. "It's our jobs just to get through school, isn't it?"

"But how does he _know_? There's still something not right about that, Harry. How does Professor Dumbledore _know_ he's not a dark wizard?" She bit her lip. "It's the Seven Houses. I know that's the key to it all. Perhaps…." 

Harry and Ron rolled their eyes. Hogwarts' history, werewolves, house-elves, and now the Seven Houses business—it was always one obsession or another with Hermione.

She asked Professor Binns, who insisted, without saying anything else, that the Seven Houses had nothing to do with wizarding history. She looked for any mention of them in the library, and found nothing. It wasn't long, though, before she had too much homework to pay it much thought. Promising herself to look into it over the holidays, she reapplied herself to Charms and Ancient Runes.

"Excellent." Draco looked really pleased when Ryan accepted. "I'll write Father and tell him to expect us both." He surveyed Ryan with an appraising look. "You do have at least one or two sets of regular robes with you, and dress robes?"

"Erm…Well, to be honest, I didn't bring any dress robes, but I do have something besides the day wear for school. I'll go to Gladrag's before we leave."

"Good." Draco said with a nod. They walked toward their classroom, ignoring the cries of a Hufflepuff whose bag had been booby-trapped. Her books were flapping about her head, refusing to settle down.

"What does your father do, anyway?" Ryan asked as they ducked a flying book.

"Well, he's very important at the Ministry," Draco said. He didn't notice that Ryan flicked his wand behind his back, and the books dropped to the floor just as a teacher arrived on the scene. "Not that he works _for_ the Ministry," Draco added hastily, "but he's on all sorts of committees there, and he serves on Gringott's Board of Governors, the Wizarding Utility Board, and the British chapter of the Wizarding Wireless Network, and some other places where our family holds an interest. And of course, he owns a lot of businesses, including a publishing house. He's written a couple books, too. History, mostly, I think." Draco wrinkled his nose. "What about yours?"

"Oh, a lot of the same," Ryan said archly. "He's a…well, a magistrate, I suppose you'd call it. Between that and running the family's estates, he's pretty occupied."

"Where exactly are you from, anyway?"

"Originally, or most recently?" Ryan shot back, the old, evasive persona sliding into place effortlessly.

Now that Professor McGonagall was in on Ryan's secret, Transfiguration wasn't nearly so much of a chore. Although she did a credible acting job, pretending still not to like or trust him, she didn't worry about grading his assignments or watching his work too closely. Which was all to the good for Ryan, for the term trucked steadily toward the holidays, and they were given loads of homework to prepare for the O.W.L.s. 

Operation Transfusion held its last meeting of the term on a blustery Wednesday night before the last Hogsmeade week-end. At it, they agreed that all Operation activity would be suspended after the holidays until the Event. Malfoy and Avery wanted the Mudblood students to think themselves safe once more.

"It will make them careless," Avery said. "It will make our jobs easier. The Event will happen toward the end of January. Everything should be in place by then. How many of you will be at the Malfoy's party?" A dozen or so hands raised. "Good. We'll be able to talk more freely there."

The meeting broke up. Draco, Crabbe, and Ryan got up to go to their dormitories, when they realized that Goyle wasn't with them.

"I thought he was sitting behind you," Draco said to Crabbe.

"He was," Crabbe assured him. "But then he left. I thought he was going to the bathroom, but he never came back."

Shrugging, the three went up to their room and found Goyle in bed already. He stuffed something under a pillow hastily as they came in.

"'Lo," he said. "I had some work to finish up, so I came up here. Too hard to concentrate with the meeting on."

"That may be the longest sentence I've ever heard from you, Goyle," Draco said in a matter-of-fact tone. "What have you been doing lately? Taking a correspondence course on grammar?"

Goyle laughed unappreciatively. "Just hard to keep up, you know, with everything. Lots of work to do."

"Yes, of course, we all know how hard it is for you to keep up," Draco said coldly. "Ryan, you'd better get something smaller than that trunk to drag home with you."

Ryan found a small suitcase to hold his dress robes, a few sets of casual clothing, and his essentials for the trip to Malfoy Manor. He had no sword anymore, and no room for the bow, so he had to content himself with a dagger which he could conceal more easily. They took the Hogwarts Express to King's Cross, sharing the compartment alternately with Crabbe and Goyle and Pansy and Emma. Ryan let Draco talk, gathering information about Lucius Malfoy and preparing himself for the challenge of fooling him. If Draco could be believed, it would be difficult, to say the least. Draco had nothing but praise for his father.

When they reached the station, they shrugged into their cloaks and left the platform. They were met by the chauffeur, who led them outside, where Draco's father's car waited to take them home.

"Father only keeps it because of the cargo capacity," Draco explained, dripping with superiority as the chauffeur loaded the bags into the spacious boot. "Even if I could Apparate, it's difficult to bring luggage along, and they still haven't legalized carpets."

The car pulled away from the station and glided through the evening traffic effortlessly. They bypassed a traffic circle by driving right through it, but no one seemed to notice, except the fountain in the centre, which jumped out of their way. Soon they were following the highway out of town and then, suddenly, the car shot forward in a flash. Then it slowed down almost as sharply and coasted to a smooth stop in front of a huge edifice of white marble.

Malfoy Manor was originally built as a castle, but had been magically and mundanely added to and renovated many times in its life. The Louis XIV façade which Ryan now faced jutted out from the original bailey. Though it was dark out, he could see that the manor sprawled over into extensive acreage and woods, with a number of outbuildings. 

Draco led Ryan up the wide stone steps to the door. The chauffeur pulled the car around to the back for the house-elves to unload. As they approached, the door swung open and Narcissa Malfoy welcomed them inside.

"Draco!" She said affectionately, bestowing her son a warm hug. "And you must be Ryan," she continued effortlessly, offering her hand. She was thin, and a more yellowish blonde than her husband and her son, and her smile changed her attractive, but slightly cold face into a vital and beautiful one. 

"Mrs. Malfoy," Ryan said, bowing over her fingers slightly, but at least remembering not to bring them to his lips. "Thank you for allowing me to visit."

Narcissa laughed lightly. "But of course. Goodness, Draco, you never said he was so formal. Or so handsome." She laughed again, and Ryan tactfully ignored the implied flirtation in her eyes. 

A house-elf popped into existence and unclasped Draco's cloak for him. Ryan undid his oak leaf clasp and the house-elf took their cloaks away.

"Heddy!" Narcissa called and an aging house-elf appeared in the foyer.

"Mistress?" She asked.

"Show Mr. Pelerand to his rooms." She addressed him again. "I'm sure you want to freshen up before dinner?"

"Yes, thank you," Ryan said reservedly. Mrs. Malfoy nodded her understanding and Ryan followed the house-elf's beckoning, "Right this way, sir," through the spacious hall and up the grand staircase.

The second floor landing led to the library directly ahead, and two shorter stairways leading to wings which stretched out on either side. Heddy led Ryan to the left and down a number of doorways until a door opened on their right. "Here you are, sir," she piped. "Mistress gave you a view of the grounds, sir. Bath is to your left there. Is everything to your liking, sir?"

"Yes, thank you. This will be fine." Ryan walked through the well-appointed room to a set of French doors looking out over the back of the house. Beyond the little balcony, he could see a small courtyard, presumably off the dining hall, and a large field beyond, muddy and snow-flecked at the moment, but featuring goalposts for Quidditch.

Inside the room, a fire crackled in the small grate along the right wall. His bag was waiting for him on a chest at the foot of a comfortable-looking, if narrow, sleigh bed of carved cherry. The bath, when he examined it, was small but utilitarian. He came back out and changed from his traveling robes into a set of soft hunter green ones made of heavy silk. He switched over his wand and concealed the dagger on a belt underneath the robes—he wasn't about to go unarmed when he wasn't sure how seriously Lucius Malfoy honored traditions of hospitality. An insult, perhaps, but one that might save his life. With a final look in the mirror to check his disguise and that the knife was well hidden under the robes, he called for Heddy to conduct him back downstairs.

Draco and his mother were in the front parlor, a Victorian effusion of tasteful lined wallpaper and Queen Anne furniture. 

"Everything all right with the room? Good. Lucius should be home very shortly and we can eat. Draco was just telling me that you fence?"

Whatever else one might say about the Malfoys, Ryan thought, Narcissa was an excellent hostess. She possessed a poise and an easy way of making conversation that would have rivaled any Muggle politician's wife. He could easily recognize the qualities that Lucius either understood or cultivated in his choice of spouse. 

They chatted for only a few minutes when the mantle clock changed from "traveling" to "home" with a muted chime. Narcissa rose smoothly and asked Ryan to excuse her. Draco smiled at Ryan.

"Nervous?" He asked.

"A bit," Ryan said truthfully. "You've painted quite a picture of your father."

Draco's smile broadened. "My father's quite a man." They both stood up at the sound of Draco's parents' footsteps.

Lucius Malfoy was about what Ryan expected, which was both good and bad. He was not quite the same height as Ryan, though taller than Draco by about a head. His pointed chin and fair hair resembled Draco's greatly, though he wasn't as handsome as Jareth Malfoy had been in his day. He had the same grey eyes as Draco, but Jareth's astute expression. Within five seconds, Ryan was sure, Lucius assessed Ryan's breeding and intelligence, and approved. His face, however, betrayed nothing. He took his first impression of Ryan completely in stride.

"So finally we meet you, Ryan," he said with a charming smile. "I've never known Draco to go on so positively about a classmate," he said.

"It's very good of you to say so, sir," Ryan said, finding it not difficult at all to defer to the man, despite his younger age. Lucius seemed utterly in control of himself, his surroundings, and his family. They shook hands and matched each other's firm grip. Again, it impressed Lucius, but he hid it well.

"Welcome home, Draco," Lucius said to his son, putting a hand on Draco's shoulder lightly. "Pleasant train ride?"

Draco shrugged. "It was all right. May we eat now? I'm starved."

Lucius smiled thinly. "Of course," he said after a moment. Draco looked down a bit awkwardly, but Lucius simply glanced at his wife. "Narcissa?"

"Dinner is ready whenever we are, Lucius. Shall we go in?"

As they took their seats at the elegant table, Lucius offered them wine with dinner.

"Lucius, I don't think…." Narcissa began.

"Nonsense. They're both old enough for a drink with dinner, aren't you, boys?"

Draco smiled broadly, but Ryan simply nodded. "Quite old enough, thank you."

A look passed between Draco and Lucius as a servant filled their glasses. Ryan couldn't tell for sure what it meant, but he had a feeling Mr. Malfoy wished his son would keep a tighter rein on his emotions. It reminded Ryan of his own lessons on behaviour in polite society.

Conversation went smoothly enough through the salad course, since most of the focus was on Draco. But as the fish arrived, so did a gentle, but meticulous, third degree.

"Now, Draco wasn't too clear in his letters," Lucius said breezily. "Where exactly were you at school before Hogwarts?"

Ryan smiled, surprised it took them this long to start probing his false past. "I was at Nördskolr in Sweden until my third year, and Durmstrang after that."

"Then you studied under Professor Karkaroff?" Lucius pounced quickly, biting out the name.

"He was Headmaster, yes," Ryan said guardedly. "But he wasn't teaching. And all last term he was in Britain for the Tri-Wizard Tournament," he added, watching carefully for Lucius' reaction to that and thanking Albus for Karkaroff's dossier. 

Lucius was good, no question. Again, the eyes were the only possible betrayal of the man's feelings about Karkaroff, the Tri-Wizard Tournament, or the connections between the two. And even then, it was impossible to scrutinize the flicker which passed through them and melted away instantly.

"And what did you think of him?" Lucius asked with a meaningful sidelong glance at Draco.

Ryan made a show of thinking before answering. "I think he was afraid to teach us too much. He didn't like any kind of trouble visiting—from inside or out. And he didn't want anything to interfere with Krum."

Lucius seemed satisfied with the answer, but frowned. "Three schools in five years…. Forgive me for asking, but why all the moving around?"

"Six years, actually, sir—I had to repeat my second term at Durmstrang because the curricula were too different. But to answer you, it was largely my family's decision. My father didn't approve of Nördskolr's program and thought Durmstrang would be more…disciplined." He dribbled butter on his forkful of fish and ate.

"Normally, I would agree," Lucius sighed. "But why Hogwarts?"

Ryan swallowed. "Well, Karkaroff's disappeared, and the new Headmaster and I…." He sipped his wine. "If Karkaroff was leery of trouble, then Guttmacher's positively obsessed about it. Can't stand any deviation from the course schedule, if you take my meaning."

"Ah," Lucius said with a knowing smile. "No sense of humour?"

"Exactly. My grades have always been good, but I can't say my record is spotless. First thing Guttmacher did was try to weed out all the potential 'problem children.' I was invited not to return." He shrugged elegantly. "Dumbledore owed my family a favour, so I got in. Simple as that."

Draco, who was already on his second glass of wine, gaped at his classmate. "How come you never told this to any of us?" He said with a whine.

Ryan shrugged again, turning up the charm another notch. "Hogwarts is full of overly inquisitive wizards. Besides, the rumours were much more amusing."

Overall, the Malfoys were excellent dinner companions. Under other circumstances, Ryan thought as the meal was cleared away, he might have been tempted to befriend Lucius. During the main course, his host spoke to them a little about the Ministry and various issues which were in need of resolution there. Apart from his snobbery, Ryan thought, Lucius had a level head and a shrewd mind. He was the kind of Slytherin Ryan expected, recalling his ancestor, Jareth, who also managed to pull success out of nearly any situation. 

As they rose from the table, Lucius invited Ryan to the library. Draco, his cheeks flushed from a third glass of wine (after which Narcissa refused to allow him any more), wanted to come, too, but Narcissa deftly asked him to accompany her and try on the new robes she bought him for the house party.

Lucius led Ryan back up the stairs and into the room off the second floor landing. A fire illuminated them in warm light which faded to shadows against the high walls lined with books. A matched set of wing chairs sat before the fire. Two high banks of windows on either side, covered by heavy velvet drapes, told Ryan that this room was in one of the original castle towers.

"Scotch?" Lucius asked mildly, helping himself to a draft from a decanter on a small table, set by one of the chairs.

Ryan chanced a look in Lucius' eye before answering. They held challenge, a test of some kind. But whether accepting or declining the invitation was the correct answer, Ryan couldn't be sure. "What else did Draco tell you about me?" He asked quietly, stalling.

He was answered with a cold smile. "He told me you preferred the sound of the Hog's Head to the Three Broomsticks. There's more to your story about Durmstrang than you let on, isn't there?"

Ryan grinned. "Yes. But I wasn't lying, either, sir. My grades have always been high."

"That's all right, you don't have to make excuses to me. From what Draco's said, you're receptive, yet cautious. That's a good combination. You've lived a little bit, despite school. And you clearly know what you're about. I like that." He spilled amber liquid into a second glass without asking. "I've heard of the Pelerand family, through my research. Very good stock, certainly, though they all but disappeared for a long time." He let the question hang in the air for a minute, but Ryan didn't answer. Letting it go for the moment, Lucius continued as if he had been lost in thought. "Yes. Oh, I worried a bit when Draco first mentioned you, but it's good for him to have someone else about—of the same calibre, I mean. Hardly anyone at that school has any sense of bloodline. And with Dumbledore as Headmaster…." He sighed and took a seat. "I thought about letting him go to Durmstrang, as a matter of fact—though now…." A shadow passed over his face, or else it was a trick of the firelight. He held out the tumbler to Ryan, who took it. Challenge offered; challenge accepted.

Lucius watched him take his first drink. Ryan swirled it first, sniffing, then took a careful sip. He exhaled slowly as the alcohol evaporated on his tongue and he swallowed. "Glen Morangie," he observed. "Twelve year old?"

"Fifteen," Lucius said, even more impressed. "That's quite an educated palate for one so young," he said.

"Well, like I said, my record's not spotless. But mostly it's from being at parties with my father and his friends." He sat in the opposite chair.

"Yes," Lucius said softly, and Ryan could tell that this dignified, self-controlled man believed him. He believed it because he'd been there, himself, at his own father's functions, sipping scotch and making deals from an early age. The Malfoy's obviously guarded their family wealth and were careful how they spent it in order to retain their aristocratic way of life. Lucius was no exception: he had an empire to protect, and protect it he did. Watching him in the low light from the fire, sipping scotch after a long day of politicking, Ryan thought he understood Lucius Malfoy. He thought he knew how to endear himself and gain access to what Dumbledore needed. And maybe, he thought, just maybe, he could get through the holidays without giving himself away.

A/N: This is presenting more challenges than I knew existed. Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing, and to Flourish for 4 snitches in her column! And as always, thanks to A'jes for being my faithful third eye. Read her Full Moon Rising! My informal poll results in a 50/50 split as to whether Ryan is or is not a Mary Sue/Gary Stu. We'll see. Next chapter: The holiday party brings many people to Lucius's—and Ryan's—door.


	7. To the Manor Born

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretenses __

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretences. As a Slytherin, he befriended Draco Malfoy to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, Draco invited him to Malfoy Manor for the holidays. Now, Ryan must test his skills as a spy to infiltrate the ranks as Voldemort supporters arrive at the mansion, all under the supervision of Lucius Malfoy….

Not for the first time, Ryan thought, "What have I got myself into?"

It was the third day of the holidays, and one week before Christmas. Draco had given him a tour of the manor the day before, while his mother dealt with the staff regarding the upcoming party. The house-elves were hard at work, turning out guest rooms and polishing the silver. A detail of dwarves had been hired to spruce up the gardens for the occasion, and to assemble ice sculpture on the front lawns. Draco was more than willing to show off the place, especially as it kept them out of the way.

"That's my great-grandfather, Phoebus Malfoy. And that's my great-grandmother, Eudora."

When Ryan had first arrived at Hogwarts, so many years ago, he believed that all human paintings talked and moved about between frames. Being slightly younger than his classmates, they allowed him to labour under that misconception for a long time. Only when he travelled in the human world outside of school did he learn differently. He discovered that the paintings at Hogwarts were somewhat rare. Since his time there, a Belgian wizard named Cudaq developed the special solution that exposed photographs with the ability to move, but paintings required a much more complex effort. In order to move, a painting had to be prepared using enchanted oils. The varnish could not be too thick, or it would fix the pigments to the canvas and they would be squashed like butterflies under glass. However, other than the worth of the painter's skills, paintings of this type were not too expensive, as the paint formulae became rather commonplace over years of design. 

For a painting to speak, the picture was produced using brushes with magical cores like wands, and extra spells applied as the painting dried, in addition to the special oils. Such brushes were rather hard to find, and only the best wizard-artists could afford them. Then too, the spells were unreliable. There was no guarantee, for example, that a painting enchanted to speak would observe any resemblance to the subject's speech. He remembered a famous case of a Venetian lady, who in life was quite demure, but her enchanted painting was downright loquacious. The artist, he recalled, reversed the spell and froze her in mid-sentence, leaving her mouth in a twisted mockery of a smile.

Far more complicated than either of these was a painting that could leave its frame for another. In fact, in all his years, Hogwarts was the only place he had visited with many portraits who could leave their frames. He suspected the spells required to allow them to maintain their form while off the canvas were too complex, rendering the costs indescribable to the average wizard. Perhaps the amount of magic at work at Hogwarts affected them all, as it prevented Muggle technology from working perfectly. In any case, there were not too many wizards around who seemed to want a painting powerful enough to leave its frame. 

The Malfoy's were no exception. Most of the portraits hung along their galleries moved, but few spoke and none seemed able to interchange themselves. He was relieved to see that Jareth's portrait could not speak, on the off chance that it might be lucid enough to identify him. As it was, it glared down with an unspeakably forbidding expression.

"He always looks like that," Draco said with a suppressed shudder. "Come on, I'll show you the dungeons."

Now, with a week to go before Christmas Day and the prospect of another full week after that, in a house full of people (most of whom were Death Eaters), and under the scrutiny of Lucius Malfoy, all Ryan wished was for a simple solstice service at home. Perhaps he and Maloriel would bundle up and go for a walk through the snow, or stay inside by the fires and listen to the bards in the hall. Perhaps…. But he had to stay focused on his task. One slip at Hogwarts could mean an embarrassing explanation; one slip here could mean death. Daydreaming wouldn't help.

It was Monday. Lucius had left early for a meeting in London. Narcissa announced to Draco and Ryan at breakfast that she would take delivery of the tree today, and that they could help decorate if they liked. Draco glanced at Ryan, deferring to his guest. Ryan just shrugged. He had decorated trees with friends on the odd Christmas, but it wasn't something he cared about either way. 

"We'll help," Draco offered.

The tree was gigantic. Narcissa waved her wand and said, "_Mobiliarbus_," and the tree turned on its side and followed them through the entrance hall and into the grand ballroom on the right. This large panelled room extended all the way to the back of the house. The front right corner featured a raised area with a baby grand piano and several lyre-shaped music stands. Two large fireplaces dominated the far wall. Narcissa directed the tree into the back right corner of the room, between the fireplace and the back wall, so that one saw it as soon as one walked in. The tree hovered in place while she drew a stand underneath it, and then it jammed itself into the stand. She waved her wand again and the stand filled with water. Next, a skirt formed around it. 

"There," she said with a satisfied sigh. "That's better already." She sniffed the air deeply. "Mm. Fresh pine."

Three neatly labelled boxes of ornaments appeared next to the tree. Narcissa drew up a chair and began to sort through them as an old a-frame ladder also took shape in the room. 

"Excellent," Narcissa said with a smile. "Which star, Draco?"

Draco picked out a crystal star for the top of the tree. It was multi-faceted and lacy and looked more like a snowflake than a star.

"Here, give me a hand with the ladder," he instructed Ryan.

"Why not just _leviosa_ it up there?" Ryan asked as they positioned the old ladder by the tree.

"No magic for tree-trimming," Draco explained with an apologetic smile. "Mum's family's thing. It's why Father usually finds somewhere else to be while we decorate. She thinks it's fun; he thinks it's a bother."

"Ah." They pushed the ladder as close to the tree as they could get it. Draco knotted his robe at the hem to get it out of his way and climbed up with the star in one hand. But the tree was so large, he couldn't reach the top even on the last rung.

"Draco, darling, let Ryan try it—he's taller." Narcissa said, clearly enjoying her tradition, with or without her husband.

Ryan tucked his robes up into his belt, worn on the outside today. His dagger he left hidden in his suitcase. 

"Do you usually wear trousers underneath?" Narcissa asked innocently, noting the way the bloused tan fabric was tucked delicately inside the soft leather boots.

Ryan grinned. "Lucky thing, too," he said, nodding.

He and Draco switched places and Ryan climbed up easily. He stretched, but couldn't quite reach the top of the tree. "Hang on," he said. "Draco, put your weight on the bottom rung." Draco complied. Ryan carefully shifted his weight, swinging one leg over to balance on the opposing rung of the a-frame. That didn't work, either, so he stepped onto the top shelf of the ladder and stood slowly. It made the difference. He grasped the top sprig of pine and fitted the base of the star onto it. He let go gently so that it eased back into place instead of springing out of his grip. Then he slowly bent one knee and felt with his foot for the ladder rung below to climb down.

"Well done," Narcissa said with delight, holding out a garland of gold suns, moons, and stars. "I don't suppose…." 

Ryan grinned and took one end of the garland, climbing back up.

They trimmed the tree through morning teatime, took a break for luncheon, and finished at about two in the afternoon. Several times as he climbed up the ladder, he caught Narcissa gazing up at him a little too closely; and once when he came halfway down to accept another delicate blown glass trinket for the tree, she let her hand linger on his a little too long, releasing him with a brush of her fingers which he found uncomfortably suggestive. 

"What have I got myself into?" He thought as she began asking him about his family's Christmas traditions. They were just putting away the few leftover ornaments. 

"We don't really do much to celebrate," he said truthfully, letting down his robes again.

"No? Well, of course, lots of the wizarding families don't. Then, too, I suppose living on the continent—Sweden, is it? —The practices are different."

Ryan shrugged. "Not too different. Nördskolr always had trees at Christmas. They use candles, though."

"But surely you at least exchange presents?" She asked. Before Ryan had to answer, Lucius strode through the doors.

"Ah, there you all are. Tree looks perfect, as usual, Narcissa," he said by way of greeting.

"You're home already?" She asked strangely. "I thought—"

"Half the Committee wanted to leave early today to finish their shopping," Lucius said with a tone halfway between amusement and annoyance. "I can catch up on things here. Draco, I could use your assistance," he continued.

"Certainly, Father," Draco said, hurrying forward to follow the wizard upstairs. 

Narcissa waited until their steps faded on the stairs before speaking. Amid the crackle of the fire, Ryan could feel a nervous energy settling in the room. 

"Lucius wants Draco to learn how to manage things," she explained when they were alone, standing before the tree. "It's very important, you understand, that Draco realise his responsibilities." She recited in a dull voice, as if quoting the sentence by rote.

"At his age?" Ryan asked, aware that the question might seem strange coming from someone ostensibly only a year older.

"Lucius started helping his father before he was fourteen," she answered, accepting Ryan's maturity without question. "Of course, Lucius was very grown up for his age. Like you." She moved a little nearer, fixing him with a sensuous smile. "You don't seem like you're only sixteen. Why is that?" She pressed even closer, leaning forward almost against his chest, looking up at his eyes. "I daresay you've got more experience than you let on."

"Experience?" Ryan echoed, swallowing hard, feeling the familiar tug of arousal brought about by a beautiful woman, however inappropriate the advance. "What _have_ I got myself into?" He thought again, realising unnervingly just how long he'd been away from Maloriel.

Narcissa nodded slowly. "Experience." She placed a hand on his arm. Ryan thought belatedly that he probably should have jumped or jerked away, something to belie her words. But her intent was just too obvious.

"Mrs. Malfoy—"

"Narcissa," she whispered.

"Mrs. Malfoy," he repeated pointedly, "you're—married." "And your husband's in the house," he thought angrily.

"So?" She countered. "I'm also old enough to be your mother. You don't care, do you?" Her other hand brushed his robes below the waist, eliciting the inevitable, but unwanted, reaction.

"That's—beside the point—" he managed. He told himself to remember how much younger she was than his mother, that in the scale of things, she was barely older than Emma Naigle, but it didn't help much. She grabbed his arms and pulled them around her, pressing close to his chest. He opened his mouth to protest again, but before he knew what he was doing, at a little movement from her upturned face, he closed his lips over hers.

It didn't last long. Ryan pulled back abruptly, clearing his throat. "Do you seduce all Draco's school chums, or am I just lucky?"

Narcissa laughed low and sexy. "You're no schoolboy. No child would kiss like that."

Ryan's mouth gaped as he struggled to recover. "I—that is—I—you flatter me, Mrs. Malfoy," he said finally, stepping back to create some distance between them. "I—surely you knew a few people my age who—like you said, I have a girlfriend of my own—"

She laughed again. "You blush so nicely, Ryan. Hmm. Perhaps it is just a natural talent." She took a step forward, which he countered with a step back toward the courtyard. "Care to test the theory?" She backed him up another step toward the French doors.

"Mrs. Malfoy—I just told you, I'm barely older than Draco, I—I have a girlfriend!" He repeated, grasping for the most likely story to throw her back off his scent. He sidled around so that the chair stood between them.

"So, what if you brought home a few tricks for her?" She placed one knee on the chair and grabbed for his wrist. "If you're worried about Lucius, don't. He has his…affairs, and I have mine."

Ryan twisted out of her grip easily, stepping back again. "Please, Mrs. Malfoy, this is not a good idea…."

"Oh? And just what are you going to do about it? I could tell Lucius, if you like. See if he gets jealous. Is that what you want?" She batted her eyes very slowly, leaning on the chair back with a catlike expression. Ryan put his hand in his pocket, but she saw the movement and drew her own wand as quickly. "A memory charm, perhaps?" She asked him, guessing his plan. "It's possible. You might be faster than I am. I might not be able to block it. But what then? How good are you with them? Could you successfully charm me, without blocking out something Lucius would notice? Could you keep me from shaking off the charm? Could you possibly make it strong enough not to wear off, while subtle enough to leave the rest of your visit intact? I think not."

Slowly, measuring each other, they lowered their wands. "What do you want?" He asked hoarsely.

"I should think that's obvious," Narcissa purred. She beckoned with one manicured finger and he moved forward reluctantly. "Don't worry," she whispered as she guided him toward her. "I can be very discreet. Just see that you are, too." 

She leaned forward slowly, her hands locked around his waist, but just at that moment, the house-elves popped into the room to retrieve the ladder, apparently ordered there by one of the Malfoy men. Ryan ducked out behind them, retreating hastily to his room before anything else could happen. He could hear her laughing as he left the ballroom.

Alone, he took several deep breaths and sprinkled some cold water on his face to calm down. "Just don't allow yourself to be alone with her," he told himself, "and you'll be all right. At least she wasn't serious about that age comment." He peered at himself in the mirror to check on the disguise. His ears were still rounded, his face still a younger version of his own, and his frame appeared slighter and less well defined. He looked like his half-brother, Nelian, who was only 18. He should have made himself less handsome, he thought, but it was too late now.

He kept thinking about Narcissa's kiss, and banishing the feelings it aroused. He indulged himself instead by digging out parchment and his quill and ink to write Maloriel a long letter. He'd find some way to send it later.

Dinner proceeded, thankfully, without event. Lucius suggested that the boys attend to any homework they might have, since the first guests would begin arriving in the next day or two. Ryan fairly pounced on this plan and insisted that he and Draco work in the library after the meal.

The next day, he asked Draco for a tour of the grounds. They threw on their cloaks and walked around to the various outbuildings—an indoor swimming pool, a greenhouse, the Quidditch pitch, and even a stable. The latter held a number of thoroughbred horses that whickered and whinnied at the thought of getting some exercise.

"Can you ride?" Draco asked snidely, remembering Ryan's negligible flying skills.

"Oh, yes," Ryan said, walking up to a bay gelding and greeting him. There was no disguising the joy in his declaration as he patted the horse and stroked his thick hair. "Give me anything that can think, preferably that doesn't leave the ground, and I can ride it."

"Mother likes to ride," Draco said dismissively. "I had to learn, but really we keep the horses for her, mostly. Perhaps you should go out with her one morning."

Ryan's grip on the horse's mane tightened convulsively. "Perhaps," he said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. "We'll see," he said a bit more forcefully after a moment.

"Come on, I'll show you my old treehouse."

Crabbe and Goyle and their parents arrived the next day; the Avery family the day after that. Next the Notts and the Parkinsons arrived. By Friday, most of the active members of Operation Transfusion and their families were staying at Malfoy Manor. 

The Malfoy's dining hall could be magically stretched to accommodate up to one hundred couples. It looked like they would need it. Ryan supposed the guest wing of the house could also expand, since if every room were the size of his, there would be nowhere to put people without doubling up. 

Talk around the table was candid, but gave no indication of any Death Eater activity. Lucius asked careful questions about the state of the Ministry and the wizarding world. Diplomatic, but thinly veiled answers, echoed around the table.

"And you, Mr. Pelerand?" Claudius Avery asked from across the table. They were seated on either side of Narcissa at one end. "You are here on your own, are you not?"

"Yes," Ryan said.

"Where are you parents?" Mrs. Montague asked on his left. "Surely they feel as we do?"

"They—" Ryan began to answer, but he felt a hand on his knee all of a sudden. He glanced at Narcissa, but she was taking a sip of wine and not paying the slightest bit of attention. "They know where I am," he continued slowly. "It was kind of the Malfoys to host me." The hand patted his knee and withdrew. A second later, Narcissa was cutting her meat.

"Now where exactly are you from?"

"Sweden," Ryan answered smoothly.

"Ah, the Greater Netherlands Ministry?"

"Yes."

"What division?"

Ryan swallowed. "I'm sorry, you're mistaken. My parents don't work for the Ministry there; it's just where we live, currently."

"Then what do they do?"

Aware that Narcissa's eyes were following his movements and her sharp ears were listening, he said, "My father has a court appointment. He also manages our estates and other interests, of course."

"Court?"

"Royal court," Ryan said off-handedly. "He holds a minor title. He serves as a magistrate as part of his duties." He shrugged. "I don't really understand it all. But I know he hates having to deal with his Muggle counterparts."

"Well, who wouldn't?" Avery contributed quickly. "Fools, the lot of them." He continued in this vein, but Ryan stopped listening when the hand returned. He pretended to adjust his napkin in order to push her hand away. Narcissa didn't even blink. She picked at her plate with her fork, and under the table, pressed her foot against his leg.

Ryan chanced a look down the long table to where Lucius held forth among his colleagues. Draco, halfway down, smiled at something Felicia said to him. He was pretty well trapped; he couldn't stop her without calling attention to himself somehow, and he couldn't move his leg out of reach without starting his own game of footsie with Mrs. Montague. He did his best to ignore her and keep up the idle—though political—conversation. 

Given the large number of houseguests, the ballroom had been temporarily furnished with several game tables for wizard chess, exploding snap, and other wizarding card games like gin mummy. After dinner, the party broke up into small groups, but Ryan noticed that few of the men were present.

"Draco, where's your father?" He asked as they teamed up for a game of Trollbridge against Mrs. Warrington and Mrs. Baddock, a youngish woman with mousy hair. 

"Oh, he's probably drinking with the others. They usually go to the drawing room for that after the meal," he answered with an odd smile. He pretended to drop a card, and they both ducked down to retrieve it. "I'll tell you later," Draco promised in a whisper.

"Everything all right here, dears?" Narcissa asked, swooping over a little later.

"Yes, Mother, we're fine," Draco piped.

"And you, Ryan?" She asked, draping a motherly hand over his shoulder.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Malfoy," he said quickly, rolling his eyes at Draco in an attempt to minimise the effort of his hostess.

"Tea and coffee will be out shortly, Mrs. Baddock," she said endearingly.

"Mum certainly took a shine to you," Draco said as they climbed the steps that evening.

"Why—do you say that?" Ryan said, trying not to blanch.

"The way she's always looking after you. Next she'll be sending you cakes all the time at school, like she did my first year. What did you say to impress her?"

Ryan shrugged. "No idea. I expect it's just because my parents are so far away. She wants me to feel at home."

"Yeah, I suppose," Draco said, as if he didn't like the thought of his mother transferring too much affection. "Well, goodnight," he said, turning off to the right for his own room.

"Night," Ryan said, thinking, over and over, "What have I got myself into?"

More guests arrived each day. Each night, most of the men—but not all—disappeared into the drawing room. 

"So, what do they do there, really?" Ryan asked. They were hanging around in Draco's room, with Crabbe, Goyle, and Malcolm Avery.

"That's the entrance to the chamber, of course," Draco said in his most superior tone.

"What chamber?"

"His dad's," Crabbe supplied. "The secret one, with all the dark arts things."

"Right," Draco said, amazed that Crabbe remembered after three years. "There's an entrance under the rug. It leads to a secret chamber in the dungeons. My father keeps all his important items down there. And all our fathers use it to hold their meetings."

"That's what this whole party's about, though, isn't it?" Ryan asked. "So, if they're all of the same mind, why have the party upstairs and the secret meetings in the dungeon?"

"Because, Pelerand, they're not all in the inner circle," Avery said with impatience. "There are people here who could be supporters, and people here whose families were supporters, but haven't declared their loyalty yet…."

"Yeah," said Goyle, "and that room's shielded from the Ministry, didn't you say?"

Draco nodded. "We have to be careful. Father will sound them all out. You'll see. This is just to attract them, to expose them to our way of thinking."

"Well, when do we get to hear the pitch?" Ryan said, feeling his own impatience.

"Probably after Christmas," Avery surmised. Draco nodded agreement.

"Everyone will be here by then. Father will figure out who stays and who goes."

On Christmas Day, the rest of the guests arrived. The luncheon spread provided by the Malfoys rivalled Hogwarts' table. However, they served it as a buffet so that the guests could mingle freely, and the courtyard doors between the dining hall and the ballroom were opened, with a magical canopy to protect the walk between. They didn't exchange any presents, since there were too many people there. As Ryan watched Lucius circulate through the rooms, he could see Draco's assurances in action. Lucius, charming and sly, worked the party, dropping a well-placed compliment here, a choice phrase there, and watched the reactions closely.

As the light waned into evening, Ryan, holding a conversation with the Naigles, got to see his work close up.

"Brutus, Julia, so good of you to come," Lucius said as he joined them, shaking hands.

"Of course; wouldn't turn down your invitation, Lucius," Brutus Naigle said warmly.

"Be sure to get some of the king crab: Narcissa tells me she gave the servants her family recipe for the scorpion sauce." 

"I haven't had scorpion sauce in years…"

"Well, happy to provide, Julia. You've met Pelerand, I see," he continued with a nod at Ryan.

"Yes, of course. Emma's talked of almost no one else all term," Julia Naigle said glowingly, ignoring Ryan's blush.

"I should say so," Brutus joined in with a playful finger wag at Ryan.

"Oh, from what Draco's told me, our Mr. Pelerand has a way with ladies," Lucius said, but his words held an overtone which made Ryan pause. However, he had no time to react, for Lucius continued seamlessly, "Brutus, I wanted to talk to you about the editorials lately: what are they saying at the Prophet about the Muggle Protection Acts?"

"Well, some for, and some against, Lucius, of course."

"Yes, but surely as department manager you have some control over what makes it into print?"

"Some," Naigle said, looking uncomfortable but puffed up at the same time. "We have to be careful to remain neutral, Lucius."

"Certainly, certainly, that's understood, but off the page, Brutus, what does the staff think?"

Ryan felt a pinch through his robes, in a very private location. He bit back a yelp, and instead made a sound like a hiccup. "Excuse me," he said quickly, looking around. Narcissa Malfoy winked back at him as she moved away to another group of guests.

"You all right?" Mr. Naigle asked. Lucius just frowned.

"Fine, thank you, excuse me," Ryan said, and made his way across the room as if looking for water.

Narcissa joined him at the table. "Sorry. Couldn't resist."

"That's what you call discreet?" Ryan hissed at her. "He was standing right there—"

"I find a little risk just makes it that much more fun, don't you?" She purred, smoothing his hair back in a maternal way. "You covered yourself well. And you've been avoiding me, I see."

"What did you expect?"

She laughed. "You can't hide forever, my dear. Miss Naigle, I'm sure, would be delighted to know how you observe your fidelity to your girlfriend."

"Look—" 

"Ah," Lucius said brightly as he joined them at the table. "Everything all right, Ryan?"

"Yes, sir, thanks. Just a little hiccup. Must have swallowed wrong or something."

"Well, don't overdo it, there's plenty of food."

"Yes, sir."

Lucius slid a possessive arm around Narcissa's waist. "Darling, be a dear and go say hello to the Boles for me; you know I can't stand that woman," he requested silkily.

"Of course, Lucius," Narcissa said, returning his light squeeze before gliding off into the party again.

"He must have seen it," thought Ryan. "Here it comes. I'm dead."

"So," Lucius said quietly, helping himself to a canapé, "has she made a pass at you yet?"

Ryan almost dropped his plate. The jealous husband, he was prepared for. A paternal warning, a territorial admonition, even out-and-out hexing, he could have expected, but Lucius seemed so calm about it all.

"I see," Lucius continued with a sigh. "I'm not that surprised, really, though given your age, I hoped…." He smiled, not unkindly. "She needs to know she's attractive, that's all," he explained, and now Ryan could detect the paternal, condescending tone. "It doesn't mean anything, Ryan. I'll talk to her later."

"You—you're not—"

"Going to kill you?" Lucius chuckled. "Why? Should I?" He held Ryan's eyes for a moment, as if looking for evidence of wrongdoing. "I told you, she just wants attention. You've kept this to yourself, which is good. Keep it that way, and there won't be a problem." He didn't speak any louder than necessary to be heard over the chatter, but the edge in his voice was unmistakable. 

Luckily, Ryan's sputtering would have been in character at any age. Lucius chuckled again, his easy-going persona back in place, and clapped Ryan on the shoulder. "Come into the drawing room with us, later. We have much to discuss." 

Then he moved into the hallway, as if aware of something Ryan couldn't see. Ryan followed at a distance. When he reached the doorway, he could see a new arrival at the entrance to the ballroom, and a few people coming over to greet him. Lucius strode across the hall and called to him from behind. The figure turned, and there was no mistaking the hooked nose, the uneven teeth, the black hair and eyes, and the foul expression. It was Severus Snape.

"Severus!" Lucius said with sincere relief in his voice. He took the potions master's hand and drew him aside toward the parlour door. Ryan, from his vantage point just outside the dining room, could barely make out their conversation.

"What kept you?" Lucius asked, his voice a study in suspicion.

"I had to put in an appearance at the School's dinner," Snape said in an irritated tone himself. "There are still those who would report my absence at such a function."

"There are still those who would view your tardiness ill, as well."

"I have explained—" Snape began, his voice raising slightly, but Lucius cut him off, guiding him just inside the parlour.

"Not to my satisfaction, and not to our lord's."

Snape growled low before answering. "If that is the case, I will answer to him, Malfoy, but not to you."

Lucius made a noise between a sigh and a growl. His next comment was too low to hear. Ryan moved a step or two down the hall, pretending to wait for the water closet. He could hear again.

"Rather ostentatious, even for you, isn't it?" Snape commented nastily.

"All part of the picture we want to present, Severus. The guest list is long, true, but one never knows where we'll find supporters. To anyone else, this is just a party. Speaking of which, have a drink."

"No."

"Suit yourself…."

"When is the meeting?" Snape asked testily.

"The usual time. You'll stay the night, certainly?"

There was a pause. Then Snape said, "I had no idea you were including so many students."

"They're impressionable. They're also expendable." Another pause. "We've got hours, Severus. Go have a little fun. It won't kill you."

"That is for me to decide." Ryan edged closer when he heard a whisper and a choked noise. Then Lucius began speaking again.

"As I said, Severus, you have much to prove to us. If your intention is sincere, then you'll not be above a little grovelling to rejoin the ranks. And while you're in my house, you'll follow my orders until I am satisfied. So get out there like a good little acolyte, and be pleasant to my guests."

Ryan moved away from the door as fast as he could without making too much noise, sensing the end of the interview. Sure enough, he was barely more than halfway back to the dining hall when Snape stumbled into the hallway, Lucius right behind him. He looked outraged, but at a cold smile from Lucius, he forced his malevolent scowl into a sarcastic sneer and followed his host into the throng. But his expression faltered when he noticed Ryan, who grabbed a drink hastily and joined the nearest clump of conversation. He didn't approach, but Ryan got the feeling that Snape had glimpsed him retreating up the hallway.

The party went on; more people arrived after their dinners. Soon the large manor was full, the party overflowing into the parlour and the library. As the hour approached nine, Ryan noticed a number of men slip out and pass through the parlour to the drawing room beyond. He was about to investigate, when Draco and the other Slytherin boys found him.

"Father says we can go in, if we want to," Draco said with unmistakable pride.

"Yeah, all right," Ryan said, feigning nonchalance. A mix of emotions conflicted within him. He was, of course, excited to be allowed in finally, to gather Albus's precious information, and to hear how the Death Eaters characterised themselves. He was also apprehensive, worried that someone would denounce him, or that a testing of some kind would reveal his identity. If they took action…. Then, there was a very small, but insistent, part of him that dreaded what rituals might take place, while at the same time, an eerie, morbid fascination crept up on him and seized his curiosity about their dark rites. Fortunately, he suspected that most of the other boys felt the same—except for the fear of being exposed as a spy.

As it happened, there was no ritual, no invitation to the secret chamber beneath the drawing room floor, no sacrifices or dark spells. There were two spells in the room, however: one that made the room soundproof, and one that prevented anyone from Apparating into or out of the room. A bar at the far end of the salon was set up with a selection of liquors, and already several men of all ages were helping themselves. Lucius turned, saw his young charges, and beckoned invitingly. The boys looked at each other. Then Draco, with a shrug, marched over to the bar and accepted the scotch his father poured him. When they all had a drink (except Snape, Nott, and an old man Ryan hadn't met), Ryan braced himself for someone to deliver speeches.

They didn't come. The gentlemen were talking in smaller clumps about the same issues he had heard at the outer party, though even more frankly than in the other rooms. Lucius kept Draco near him and began introducing him more pointedly to some of the men, whom Ryan assumed to be Death Eaters. He took a sip of his single malt and wondered whether he should sit or find someone to talk to.

"You're Pelerand," an older man said. He had a deep voice with a thick burr.

"I am," Ryan said, holding out his hand out of habit.

"Walden MacNair," the older man said. "Lucius says ye're to stay the rest of th'oliday with them."

"Yes, that's right."

"And what d'ye think of the developments, lad?"

"Developments?"

"Aye, the status of things. Being a foreigner, what's ye're position?"

"Oh, I see," Ryan said, trying to look a little overwhelmed. "Well, I think getting mixed up with Muggles is no good, clearly," he said.

"But ye're father and his court appointment, we heard about," MacNair began.

"Well, I'm not sure we can do without them completely," Ryan said with a shrug. "I mean, they are good for some things, aren't they? And there are a lot more of them."

"Och," MacNair scoffed with a sip of scotch. "There's never a Muggle nor Mudblood can get the better o'me, lad." He winked and swigged again, motioning Ryan to do the same.

"So it's true, about the court thing in Sweden?" Avery asked suddenly.

"Mm-hmm," Ryan said though his sip of liquor.

"You never told us," Crabbe said petulantly.

"I daresay everyone in this room has his secrets," Ryan said, but he was surprised to see Goyle pale more than anyone else did at his remark.

"Better ease up on the scotch, Walden," the adult Goyle said, coming over. "Just because they're young boys, don't think you can drink them under the table."

"Oh, but that I can, Grissom, that I can."

"Not tonight, at any rate," Lucius said, sensing a need for some damage control. "Though I'd put money on Ryan, if it came to that."

"Why not?" The elder Avery asked, with some hidden meaning. "It is Christmas, after all."

Lucius's eyes glittered. Ryan almost thought he was trying not to laugh. "Why not, indeed?" He moved swiftly to the bar and brought out a fresh bottle of 12-year-old single malt.

"Ryan," he ordered, and the spy saw no choice but to comply. Draco and the others urged him on. He approached the bar with a resigned expression. "Think you can take him?"

Ryan regarded MacNair closely. The old man had already had a cup or two, and Ryan knew his own endurance. "Shots or sips?" He asked. Snape made a disgusted sound and left.

MacNair said "shots" even as some of the others said "sips."

"Shots," Lucius said firmly. "Last chance, Pelerand." Something hard hovered behind Malfoy's eyes. Draco had the same look when he insisted, over Ryan's protests, that the other play during the Quidditch trials. Ryan thought dimly that while the man professed to feel no jealously over Narcissa's attentions, here was an excellent revenge. If Ryan was the boy he claimed to be, even as an experienced drinker, he would doubtless regret this in the morning. 

He looked over at Draco, who shrugged, but looked excited. Clearly, the boy had no inkling what the drinking contest would do to his friend, only saw an opportunity to pit his young guns against his father's old cronies.

"All right, shots," Ryan said.

"Give him a handicap, Lucius," someone said in the back as the men rearranged themselves around the bar to watch. "Walden, how much have you had tonight?"

"Three," the Scot said forcefully.

"Right," Lucius said, and poured two shot glasses. "Drink up, Ryan," he ordered, in the same patronising tone.

Ryan took a deep breath, held it, and tipped the first shot glass into his mouth. At least Lucius Malfoy had good taste in liquor, he remarked to himself as the burn travelled along the back of his throat. He exhaled slowly and repeated the process for the second shot. Clearing his throat, he nodded to Lucius. Two fresh glasses appeared on the bar and were filled.

"Place your bets," Lucius said smugly. A flurry of activity, mostly from the adults, resulted in a pool of twenty galleons on MacNair, fifteen on Ryan. Lucius shrewdly waited until they had seen Ryan tip back two shots in a row before making book. He knew they would demand different odds, assuming the young man wouldn't last long at that rate.

They lifted their glasses, tipped, and exhaled. Walden looked glassy-eyed, but remained balanced on his barstool perch. Ryan tried not to look too unaffected. In truth, the quick succession of alcohol was making him feel a little fuzzy, but it would take a good many more before he felt like falling down. He hoped MacNair would quit before then; he never much understood the point of drinking contests.

A second, a third, a fourth shot. Lucius kept pouring, opening a second bottle, this time an Orkadian label. Ryan wished he could ask for water, but knew better. It would equal a forfeit. He also wished he had something more to eat. The alcohol would affect his judgement, and he couldn't afford to be sloppy here. At least it kept them from asking questions.

"Where did you learn to drink like that, boy?" Gaius Bole asked. "Well," Ryan thought, "maybe not all questions."

"I didn't get invited to leave Durmstrang for casting dark spells," Ryan quipped to the vast amusement of the crowd. Was his speech slurring? He couldn't tell. Draco looked odd, but he didn't think that was the effect of the scotch, either.

Another drink. Another. He felt a familiar numbness pushing the world away. He heard, as if far away, Lucius uncorking a third bottle. "Gods, let the man fall soon," Ryan prayed, and his familiar mantra, "What have you got yourself into?"

"What's the bet?" He asked Lucius sometime later.

"About 100 galleons, altogether, on you. Going to make it?"

"Think so…."

Lucius smiled approvingly. "Good lad." Ryan felt sure if it were Draco, Lucius would never allow him to engage in such a potentially humiliating pastime. But then, Lucius wasn't doing this because of the money, or even the glory. He was simply enjoying seeing Ryan so incapacitated. That thought alone helped Ryan sober up a bit more.

Lucius poured out the last of the third bottle and retrieved a fourth from the bar. MacNair and Ryan picked up their glasses and tipped back…and MacNair kept tipping. He fell off the stool and into the knot of men behind him. With a great cry, they caught him. Lucius smiled. "Take him up to bed," he said breezily, collecting his galleons from several wizards. "Draco," Lucius called. Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, and Avery all came forward.

"Ryan, you don't look so good," Avery said.

"Yeah?" Ryan blinked at him.

"Better see him to bed too, boys," Lucius said with a sigh. "It's getting late." He left them to help their friend, whom he judged would become very sick very soon, to his bedroom, and went to join Narcissa in saying goodnight to those who would not be staying. "Oh, and Draco—better take him straight to his bath, will you? He's going to need it. Send one of the servants to look after him." While the semi-public humiliation was worth it, in some respects, Lucius wasn't about to allow Ryan to defile the rugs. 

Draco lost little time in ordering Crabbe and Goyle to balance Ryan between them and guide him up the stairs. Ryan muttered something unintelligible.

"What?" Draco asked.

"Water," Ryan requested.

"Yeah, all right," Avery said. "I heard that helps sometimes." He shrugged. "There's a bath in his room, right?" 

Ryan could still move under his own power, for which he was thankful. Had either Crabbe or Goyle attempted to carry him up, the bouncing would certainly have had an unpleasant effect on them all. They assisted him around the curve and up the short stairs from the landing. When they got to his room, their resourcefulness failed again.

"What now?" Crabbe asked.

"Father said let a servant take care of him," Draco said with a shrug. "Let's go." He shooed them all out. Just before he left, he called a house-elf and instructed it to see to his guest.

Aside from the twinge of a slight hangover the next morning (aided tremendously by a dose of PepperUp potion), Ryan felt no ill effects from the incident. The men from the drawing room showed some respect for him and Lucius seemed vindicated somewhat. Narcissa naturally took the opportunity to show a maternal concern for him, but she couldn't very well call too much attention to him in front of the other guests. 

That day, the men stayed cloistered most of the afternoon, a few women occasionally joining them, including Narcissa, but mostly by themselves. Ryan did notice that Snape continued to stay—presumably because Lucius's plans had been pushed back a night by the drinking contest. The young folk amused themselves playing chess, Exploding Snap, and avoiding homework. All day long, they helped themselves to Christmas cake and assorted goodies from the table. Ryan treated his stomach somewhat gingerly. It had been far too long since he'd binged so much, and he still felt a little off. Guilty over not being able to concentrate too much on the mission that day, he decided to excuse himself and make an early night of it. He climbed the stairwell to the guest wing, which was lit by only a few torches along the walls.

A few minutes after he came upstairs, there was a knock at his door. He opened it politely and was surprised when Narcissa pushed her way in and shut the door behind her.

"I told you, you can't hide forever," she said smugly.

"Mrs. Malfoy, I'm really not feeling well—"

"I can fix that," she said, and with a wave of her wand and a muttered, "Postus Soberium," she did just that. Ryan's head felt completely clear again, his stomach no longer lurched every few minutes, and his muscles did not ache. "There," she said, pushing him toward the bed. "All part of a mother's touch."

Ryan groaned. "Mrs. Malfoy!" He said firmly, holding her at arm's length. "Do you have any idea how this happened? I mean, whose idea my getting drunk was?"

"Of course," she shrugged. "Lucius can be so sweet, when he tries. I can handle him, don't you worry."

"I'm not sure _I_ can handle it," Ryan said, twisting her away. She overbalanced and fell on the bed, laughing sensuously.

"Ooh, going to be rough, are we?" She scrambled up and caught his robes, pulling him toward her.

Ryan caught her wrist, squeezed, and twisted. Her playful expression turned to one of pain, but she didn't cry out. "I'm asking you politely," Ryan said through clenched teeth, "to control yourself. I've told you why I can't do what you want." He flung her wrist away and she recoiled with the force of his release. For an instant, fear crossed her face and made her look vulnerable. But then steel glittered in her eyes and she set her jaw in a mocking smile.

"What are you going to do about it?" She asked, much as she had done days ago.

"This." Ryan closed in on her seductively. He moved round the side of the bed and reached toward her, caressing her cheek, then her neck, then her shoulder. He drew her toward him, and she closed her eyes languidly, holding her arms out to either side. Ryan slid his hands slowly down her arms, toward her wrists, pressing his chest against hers…. And he snatched her wand away in a swift motion, aiming it at her face. She glared at him and made as if to scratch at him with her nails.

Before either could make a sound, however, there came another knock at the door.

Narcissa hissed in fear, "Lucius!" And scrambled off the bed, adjusting her blue robes. Ryan rushed her into the bathroom, where she doused the lights and shut herself inside. The knock repeated softly. Ryan threw Narcissa's wand on the bed and, with a deep breath, answered the door.

But it wasn't Lucius. 

"Professor Snape!" Ryan said quietly. "What are you doing here?"

Snape looked agitated. Every few seconds he looked furtively around the hallway, as if certain that someone would see him at any moment. When he spoke, it was even more strained and lower than his usual intense whisper. "I came to ask you the same question, Pelerand. Have you any idea what this is?"

"A house party?" Ryan said with the flick of an eyebrow.

Snape sighed. "Draco invited you, didn't he?"

"As a matter of fact, he did do," Ryan countered. "I had nowhere better to go, after all."

"You don't understand what this really is," Snape began, but just then, Ryan picked up the sound of boots climbing the stairs to their wing. He grabbed Snape by the front of his robes and pulled him into the chamber.

"What—" Snape began to ask. Ryan resisted the urge to slam the potions master against the door. It would make too much noise. Instead, he covered Snape's mouth with one squeezing hand, the other still on the wizard's robes, and jerked Snape's head back once to signal him to be quiet. He let go, and put out the lights with one hand, while the other clicked the door shut softly. The whole process took only a few seconds.

In the silent dark, the two men heard the clop of expensive boots pace up the hallway. Snape's look of outrage turned to one of fear. The steps halted in front of Ryan's door. Ryan held his breath, hoping Snape would do the same, but unable to warn him. After a moment, the steps resumed, retreating. Ryan held up his hand for a time to make sure all was clear. 

"Lumos," Snape muttered, and the tip of his wand bathed the two of them in a warm glow. "Pelerand, if you know what's good for you, you'll make your excuses and leave before anything happens."

"Like what, exactly?" Ryan asked. The Elf curled his lip in a haughty, superior expression. He had to admire the professor risking his position, tenuous already, with the Death Eaters, in order to warn a student. It also confirmed Dumbledore's assurances: Snape had no idea who Ryan really was, nor why he was there. 

"This isn't a social gathering, Pelerand," Snape lectured.

"Of course not; it's a recruitment party," Ryan smirked in return, struggling to keep from laughing as the shock registered on Snape's face. He just hoped Narcissa couldn't hear them. "Draco told me all about it." He cocked his head at the potions master, who appeared to be sweating ever so slightly. "Now, if I didn't know better, Professor, I'd say you didn't approve of the Death Eaters—but of course, that can't be, can it, seeing as you're one of them." Ryan folded his arms over his chest and gazed at the other man, acting very pleased with his discovery.

Snape swallowed hard, but kept his voice calm and his eyes fixed on his pupil. "I don't approve of Malfoy dragging schoolboys into this," he fairly spat. "This is business for adults, not children."

"I'm not a child," Ryan countered. "I assure you, Professor, I'm old enough to make my own decisions, and I have my reasons for being here. I wonder, does Mr. Malfoy know that you're scaring off his recruits?" He took one step toward the door, as if to threaten to tattle, and to bar Snape from leaving.

Snape grew even colder in manner, but again, the glow from his wand betrayed a sheen of sweat. "You—" he began, but broke off, reconsidering. In an instant, his whole comportment changed. He smiled not a nice smile, but a nasty, condescending smile. "You may well be the kind of person the organisation needs," he said patronisingly.

Ryan chuckled. "Oh, so now I'm to believe this was a test?" He shook his head. "I don't think so. I heard you, the night you arrived. Mr. Malfoy suspects you still. Is that why were you so worried he would find you here?" He allowed himself an evil smirk, still playing the troublemaker, still fighting residual excitement from his encounter with Narcissa. That gave him an idea—he moved forward with a slow smile, imitating his would-be seductress. "Unless—you're worried he'd come to a different wrong conclusion?" 

Snape's look of disgust spoke for itself. Ryan let the unspoken innuendo hang for a moment, frankly enjoying giving the cruel professor a little of his own discomforting medicine. "I think, you owe me a favour, Professor," he offered with stress on the title. "Oh, this little tête-à-tête remains between us, never fear, but just remember: I could tell Malfoy you're not loyal to the cause, as he suspects. Or I could tell Dumbledore when we get back, that I saw you here," Ryan said deliberately, knowing both were empty threats. He couldn't let Snape know he knew the truth about Snape's intention to rejoin the Death Eaters only to turn informant once more. To cloud that knowledge, he had to threaten to expose him as a real Death Eater, as well as to turn him in to Lucius as a spy. "So, do we have a deal?"

"You would blackmail—"

"I certainly would. As you say, I think I'm just what the organisation needs. Do we have a deal?"

Snape snarled and his fist clenched, but he choked out, "Yes."

"Excellent," Ryan grinned, knowing the bluff worked. Especially with Narcissa in the next room, he couldn't afford to blow either of their covers. "Put your wand out; I'll check the hallway." He waited until the murmur of "Nox" extinguished the glowing wand, and they were in darkness again, more complete now as someone had put out the lights while they were inside speaking. Carefully, Ryan twisted the knob and opened the door just a crack. The corridor was washed in shadows and crannies where someone could hide and stake out any door along it. But he heard nothing, not even breathing, so he craned his neck outside and looked both directions. 

"It's clear," he whispered to Snape, and swung the door further into the chamber to allow the wizard passage.

Snape brushed past him back to the corridor, but turned at the threshold. He drew breath as if to say something else, but apparently thought better of it. Then he slid away, moving through the dark with the ease and grace of a spy.

Narcissa came out of the bathroom as soon as Ryan shut the hall door. "Who was that?" She asked breathlessly, aborting her attempt to get to the wand when she saw it back in Ryan's hand.

"Couldn't you hear?"

She smiled. "No. These doors seal off sound remarkably well. Now I believe you were going to give me my wand?"

"Only if you agree to stop hounding me. Otherwise," he positioned the wand, "I'll have no choice but to charm you."

Narcissa clicked her tongue. "That's ridiculous. Why would you risk it? No one will know."

"Mrs. Malfoy," Ryan said with a sigh. "For the last time, I have a relationship."

"Then why get rid of whomever was at the door? Who was it, by the way; you never answered."

"Because, among other things, I wanted to avoid any embarrassment for you. As for risk, I can explain to Mr. Malfoy, if I have to do, that even after he spoke to you, you wouldn't stop. I don't think you want me to do that, do you? And it was Emma," he lied, "and I told her the same things I'm telling you. It's not personal. It's nothing to do with how attractive or appealing you are. I'm already in a relationship."

Her eyes narrowed. "I still have my doubts about you, you know. No boy I knew would refuse what's offered, relationship or no relationship."

"Well, perhaps you knew the wrong boys," Ryan said with finality. "Now, what's it going to be? Your word for your wand, or a memory charm?"

Life at the Malfoy's got easier after that night. Narcissa gave her word that it was just honest sport, and that she would find amusement elsewhere. Snape, now worried about what Ryan might tell Lucius, still avoided the students, but particularly Ryan. At Lucius' request, he spent most of his time in the potions room off the dungeons, preparing poisons, restoratives, and other brews for the Death Eaters to have in stock. 

The third night after Christmas Day, Lucius invited the young people into the drawing room again, including Emma, Felicia, and a select few other girls. By now, most of the peripheral guests had gone, and only a few who were not integral to Operation Transfusion remained. Again, they were allowed drinks from the bar, amid knowing looks at Ryan, who politely refused to the adults' amusement. After a short amount of socialising, Lucius held up a hand for silence. He began.

"Welcome," he said. "You see before you the foundation of what we hope will be a glorious army. You are here, among us, because we see in you the potential for greatness. As of this week, I'm sure you are aware that the opportunities open to you are as favourable as never before. For you, ladies and gentlemen, fame and honour are beginning as they have not since centuries, since the time of Salazar Slytherin himself.Those of us who were part of our lord's plans years ago, before most of you were even born, knew even then that he held the key in his hands. Our goal—our prize—was in sight, but never before realised. But now—now, he has conquered even death, and he can lead us all on the path, if we have the strength to follow."

He paused to look around the room. An older man was nodding his head appraisingly. Some of the boys blanched a bit, but none quavered visibly. Ryan saw out of the corner of his eye that Snape stood near the door with his arms crossed. Draco's face held a proud smile.

"I speak to you tonight about a coming war. Our enemies fear us; they fear our master's capabilities. They will attempt to stay our course. But they shall not succeed. You, you young, strong, dedicated wizards, are the assurance of that. For you understand, as you have been raised to understand, the importance of the purity of blood. You understand, as has been taught through countless generations, that tradition and blood speak more about a wizard's quality than the core of his wand, or the function he performs. You know that it is the blood, coursing through your veins, which enables you to be men and women of destiny."

A few boys scoffed, Avery among them, but his father quelled him with a sharp look.

"Yes, you're smiling. You're thinking, 'he sounds like a page from a history book.' Gentlemen, I speak from experience. The only thing which protects us, which can preserve our culture and our way of life, is to remain separate from Muggles. Our quarrel is not with other wizards, though they will stand in ignorance. They will see, eventually, that what we do, we do to save them, as well as ourselves. We must strive to minimise the damage to our own community. To that end, be hard, be without mercy, act more quickly and brutally than the others. The citizens of the wizarding world must tremble with horror. That is the most humane way of conducting a war. For it scares the others off. If they stay out of the way, if they let us guide them into the new era, then there can be peace."

Now many of the older men were shaking their heads and agreeing with Lucius vocally. He picked up his pace a bit.

"One principle must be absolute for warlocks and witches of our calibre: we must be honest, decent, loyal, and friendly to members of our blood and to no one else. What happens to the Mudbloods, what happens to the Muggles, is a matter of utter indifference to me. Such good blood of our own kind as there may be among them we shall acquire for ourselves, if necessary by taking away the children and bringing them up among us.

"We shall never be rough or heartless where it is not necessary; that is clear. We wizards, who are the only people in the world who have a decent attitude to animals, will also adopt a decent attitude to these human animals, but it is a crime against our own blood to worry about them and to bring them ideals. 

"I shall speak to you here with all frankness of a very serious subject. We shall now discuss it absolutely openly among ourselves, nevertheless we shall never speak of it in public. I mean the eradication of the Mudbloods, the return to purity of our race. Once this is complete, we can wipe clean the centuries of mingling and sullied, diluted progeny, and seclude ourselves in an ordered, logical world."

Ryan fought not to copy Snape's body language. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on Lucius, though he glimpsed a couple others, including the elder Goyle, by the look of him, drop their eyes slightly. Lucius continued quickly:

"There are those who argue that without intermarriage, we shall dwindle in numbers. But our master has the answer to this, as well. Our original goal, our ultimate victory in this battle, is not over the wizards who oppose us through ignorance and fear. It is a triumph over death itself. We need never fear age, infirmity, or the grave. We need never fear that our legacies will founder and fail. Those who support our master shall be rewarded beyond imagination."

Here he paused again among the muttered assent, regarding everyone in the room before continuing. In the disquieting interim, Ryan could tell that Lucius took careful note of who met his eye, who looked away, and who appeared at all daunted by his treatise. Ryan tapped into his reserves of willpower and met Lucius unblinking. So did Snape. Ryan watched Draco look at his father, but then drop his eye nervously. Lucius drew breath and continued paternally.

"You are of course all old enough to make your own decisions, and we would not ask you to take such a major step in the heat of passion. No. But think on our mission, and how it affects you and your families." A man or two shifted where he sat. "Think about the possibilities available to the victors, and the damnation sure to attend the inevitably defeated. Consider what we offer; what our lord and master can give you. Reflect carefully, for the choice you make—our friend or our foe—is absolute. There can be no neutrality this time." Ryan thought he looked directly at Snape as he said this. "Those of you who choose wisely shall be part of a company of wizards who shall be known for all time as the saviours of our kind. Those who choose to stand idle, or to side against the tide…." He spread his arms in an elegant shrug. 

"It's up to you—each of you. We will give you time, be assured. And though the temptation to discuss this may be great, we ask only that you do so among those who are here in this room, until we can be certain of the loyalties of those who are not. Think carefully, ladies and gentlemen. Choose wisely."

For a moment, after he finished speaking, nothing happened. Then, as if a wave had crested and broken upon the shore, the next generation of Death Eaters rushed forward to promise their service and offer fealty to Voldemort.

A/N: Cue the deep, ominous chords on the organ, please! Lucius's speech courtesy of Hitler's Obersalzberg speech (Available online: http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/mod/hitler-obersalzberg.html) and Himmler's speech to SS leaders in Posen, Poland (previously misquoted as Goebbels's—see what happens when I forget to document?), 1943 (available online: http://history.hanover.edu/courses/excerpts/111him.html). 

Now, I will say that nearly everything that happened this time was already planned. But, Yuubou, I hope this answers your request for Ryan to be a little "thrown off" by his situation. Congratulations (and Grr's of frustration) to Fallen*Angel for accurately pointing out a continuity flaw in Ch. 3 (drat!), which I haved fixed. Always, always, always thanks and praise to A'Jes' Blue, without whom I would still be stuck beating Narcissa down with a large stick. Also thanks to Ekat for her quick responses when I got stuck earlier. Please be patient: chapter 8 may take a while to get around to writing. For a taste of what's to come: The holidays come to a close and we return to school. And yes, folks, for everyone who wrote begging, Hermione will figure it out. But not before The Event….


	8. The Event

__

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretences. As a Slytherin, he befriended Draco Malfoy to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, Ryan rebuffed Snape's misguided attempts to save him from the Death Eaters, and Lucius Malfoy offered power and immortality to a new generation of supporters. Meanwhile, back at Hogwarts….

"Think, Ron!"

"I don't know."

"Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "Sorry. It was four months ago. I don't remember, Hermione."

The trio were in the library. Now that the holidays gave them a lot of free time, Hermione returned to her latest obsession: exposing Ryan Pelerand for a fraud. She spread a fresh roll of parchment before her and rearranged her notes onto it. Currently, she was quizzing the boys for anything they could remember about their single conversation with Ryan, on the first evening of school, up in the owlery.

"Well," Harry said slowly, "remember how he looked when you asked him about the Sorting, Ron?"

"Yeah. He went sort of queer-looking, didn't he?"

Harry nodded. "And he called himself a dark wizard, didn't he?"

"He said he was a slimy, ambitious, self-serving dark wizard, actually," Hermione said. "I've already got that. But he was talking about Slytherin's good points, too."

"Yeah," said Ron dubiously, recalling that Ryan also implied Fred and George had Slytherin qualities as well. "We might have got more out of him about that, if you hadn't asked about the house-elves."

Hermione sighed, leaning back in her chair. But she stopped mid-stretch and repeated strangely, "The house-elves." She sat up. "That's it. The house-elves! Come on," she said, standing and grabbing up her books.

"Come on where?" Harry asked.

"The kitchens. I'm going to ask Dobby what he knows."

After his speech, Lucius Malfoy produced a parchment and quill. As the students rushed forward to pledge their service, he calmly held out the quill. There was no ink bottle. The quill was itself a dark item, enchanted to write only with the sincere commitment of the signatory. The quill filled up with the students' enthusiasm and spilled name after name onto the parchment.

Draco stepped forward at once. Ryan held back, as did Goyle.

"What are you waiting for?" Draco said to Goyle, who shrugged and shuffled over. "Well?" He asked Ryan.

Ryan crossed his arms. "In a bit," he said. He was thinking how to get around the quill.

"Second thoughts?" Hissed a voice in his ear.

"No, professor," Ryan said softly. "Wondering what the catch is."

"Actually, I thought Lucius put it rather well," said Snape with a jeering look. "The Dark Lord does not bargain, Pelerand. He has no time for weakness. He rewards when and where he sees fit, and he is merciless with those who defy him." He suppressed a shudder.

"So, what's in it for us, then?" Ryan said slowly. Lucius looked up at that moment and his eyes narrowed at what he saw. 

"Everything Lucius said," Snape whispered in a bitter tone. "Power. Glory. Immortality. Go on and sign it, since that's what you want." In a burst of movement, Snape placed one long-fingered hand between Ryan's shoulder blades and pushed him into the centre of the room. He said loudly, "This one thinks he'll bargain for more if he plays hard to get."

The older men in the circle laughed. For some, it was forced, almost nervous. Most of them meant it, and the sound was harsh. Claudius Avery stepped out and sized up the young man with a disapproving scowl. "That true, Pelerand? Think you're special?"

Ryan had no time to debate whether to be humble or vicious. He returned Avery's glare with his haughtiest expression and said, "Of course. Don't you?"

Only half the room laughed this time, the nervous ones again. The older Avery grew red in the face and looked as if he might become violent, but neither he nor Ryan reached for their wands. Lucius's mouth twitched, as if holding back a smile, but he let the tension increase.

As if responding to some unseen signal, both men whipped out their wands simultaneously. Ryan was slightly slower on the draw, however, and Avery managed to shout, "_Conflagrio!_" moments before Ryan's intended spell. Ryan's robes burst into flame. He tapped himself quickly and muttered a counterspell. But before he could fire a return volley, Vitreus Crabbe and Grissom Goyle stepped in and separated them.

"Careful, lad," Grissom Goyle cautioned Ryan as he blocked the other's view of his opponent. "Claudius has an awful temper."

"I thought we were all on the same side," Ryan said with a sidelong glare at Snape, who looked straight through him.

"And we are," Lucius said, intervening finally. "Which is why, Ryan, we aren't in the business of bargaining with—or duelling—each other." He beckoned to Goyle, who guided Ryan over to the parchment. "I'm sure Severus misunderstood your reluctance," he continued in his supercilious tone. "We all know it's a big decision. But I think you already know what you're going to do. Don't you?" He never moved, but he willed Ryan to look him in the eye. The spy met his gaze and nodded slowly. He flicked his eyes away and down in an imitation of Draco's own motions. Lucius nodded as well. "Good," he said, the way a master encourages a dog. "So, as a gesture of good faith, and to show you hold no animosity toward Avery, let's have that signature now, shall we?" He held out the quill.

Ryan focused his will on his intention. He channelled nothing but the sincere desire to join the Death Eaters, omitting his secondary purpose for doing so. The quill filled with essential ink. When he looked down at the parchment, he could see the names of the young people Lucius hoodwinked into signing. Each of their signatures was a slightly different colour, corresponding to their inner character. The quill, like the Sorting Hat, could see into the soul.

Ryan put that thought out of his mind and concentrated on signing his English name. As he handed back the quill, his own purplish letters drying on the parchment, he noted absently that Draco's signature was brighter than he imagined, though decidedly green. Filing the information away, he fell back among his "peers."

"Draco," Lucius called. Beaming, Draco uttered the spell that opened the hidden door. The bar folded back along the wall, revealing a steep staircase to the secret chamber below. The Death Eaters descended.

"Harry Potter is visiting us!" Dobby bounced on his socks. He was wearing seven: two on each foot, one as a necktie, and two tied together as a belt around his maroon sweater. "Dobby is just saying to Winky, sir, that it has been too long since he saw Harry Potter, and he was thinking of paying Harry Potter a visit. But now, Harry Potter has come to Dobby, sir!"

"Er, well, actually, Dobby," Harry said, going red, "Hermione wanted to ask you something."

Dobby looked momentarily crestfallen. "But surely there is something Dobby can get for Harry Potter?" He asked, full of hope.

"Well…" Harry looked at Ron. They were nearly always hungry these days, but Ron especially. According to his mother, Ron was growing like a weed. "I guess we could use a sandwich."

Dobby smiled wide enough to show all his teeth. "So noble, Harry Potter. Yes, yes, sandwiches!" He scampered over to a large cupboard and moments later returned with a tray heaped with quartered sandwiches. He set it on one of the tables and ran away again, to return instantly with three large tankards of pumpkin juice.

"Thanks," Harry said, picking up a ham sandwich. He elbowed Ron, who already was halfway through one with turkey.

"Yeah, thanks Dobby," Ron said, ignoring the house-elf's distracted clamouring.

"Dobby," Hermione insisted, interrupting his elation. "Please, I've got to ask you something."

"You are friends of Harry Potter," Dobby said, nodding his head vigorously. "Anything for Harry Potter's friends."

"Good, Dobby, I'm glad to hear that. Because I need to know anything you know about that Slytherin transfer student, Pelerand." She picked up one of the tankards and took a sip.

Dobby's saucer-like green eyes widened even further. "P-pelerand?" He squeaked even higher than usual. "Harry Potter, is you wanting to know about the Pelerand, too?"

"The Pelerand?" Harry said through chicken salad. "What do you mean, the Pelerand?"

"Oh, Dobby is not sure about this," Dobby said sadly, hanging his head.

"Dobby, it's really important," Hermione coaxed.

"To choose between Harry Potter and Professor Dumbledore…"

"Professor Dumbledore?" All three said at once. 

"What's he got to do with Pelerand, Dobby?" Harry demanded.

"Dobby is not wanting to betray Professor Dumbledore, Harry Potter," the house-elf pleaded.

"Dobby, we don't want you to tell us anything you're forbidden to tell." Hermione pressed on. "But we have to know because—we think Harry may be in danger from Pelerand."

. "Harry Potter is not in danger!" The house-elf squealed. But at this, he began to jump up and down, beat his head, and pull his ears. "Bad Dobby!" he repeated over and over. "Bad Dobby! Giving away Professor Dumbledore's secrets!"

"Dobby," Harry said, resisting the temptation to grab the little creature by his flapping ears. "You don't have to betray Dumbledore. Really. He said we're all on the same side. So if we're all on the same side, how can knowing what he knows betray him?"

This calmed the house-elf a tiny bit. He glanced furtively from Harry to Hermione. "If Dobby tells you what he knows, you promise it will not harm Professor Dumbledore?"

"Yes, of course," Hermione assured him. "What do you know?"

Dobby looked around the kitchen before he spoke again. "Dobby cannot say everything," he warned them. "But he can tell you, the Pelerand was here before."

"Before?" Harry repeated. "Before what?"

"Before!" Dobby said, throwing his arms wide. Then, when they said nothing, he continued. "Before the start of school," he elaborated.

"He was here over the summer?" Harry asked with a frown.

"Yes," Dobby said with relief, nodding his head hard. "And Dobby can tell you, that Professor Dumbledore met with the Pelerand most of the night, but the Pelerand left early the next morning."

"Up all night? That doesn't sound right," Ron observed. "Anything else?" He asked, getting interested despite his resolve not to let Hermione's hair-brained theories affect him.

"Dobby…Dobby is not certain he should say."

"Go on, Dobby, I'm sure it's all right," Hermione placated him.

"Dobby knows that twice this year, Professor Dumbledore has ordered more…" He hit his head on the table with a bang, causing the tray of sandwiches to jump. A sandwich quarter rolled off onto the floor. Some of the other house-elves looked up, but quickly returned to their work. "Bad Dobby!" He moaned.

"Never mind, Dobby," Harry said swiftly to quell the house-elf's outburst. "Why do you call him _the_ Pelerand?"

"Dobby hears things…Dobby is told by the other house-elves, that the Pelerand's ancestors came to Hogwarts." He paused as if waiting for them to understand him.

"Yes, we knew that," Hermione said gently after a moment. "But why is he _the_ Pelerand? Surely there are others?"

"Others, yes, but they're gone, miss," Dobby said sadly. "Gone, all gone, and not even the house-elves knows where. We is thinking, miss, maybe, if the Pelerand returns to Hogwarts, the others will, too."

"Other what?" Harry asked, completely confused.

"Others like the Pelerand," Dobby said, but his eyes brimmed with tears. "Oh! Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! Professor Dumbledore asked him not to tell!" He fished out an extra sock and blew his nose loudly in it.

"Dobby," Hermione soothed him patiently. "Dobby, I have just a few more questions, if you can answer them."

"Yes, miss?" He sniffed pitifully.

"When did the Pelerands attend Hogwarts?"

"The last one left here about 1860, miss."

Hermione frowned. "And are there any house-elves still here from then?" She asked, though she feared the answer.

Dobby chuckled. "Oh, no, bless you, miss. House-elves don't live near so long as that. Only Professor Dumbledore—" He caught himself wide-eyed and beat himself again.

"Okay, Dobby, okay," Hermione pleaded. "One more question. And it's not about Professor Dumbledore."

Dobby bit his lip. "Dobby will try, miss."

"Thank you. When the last Pelerand was here, what house was he in?"

Dobby beamed with a relieved grin. "That's easy, miss. Gryffindor. All the Pelerands was Gryffindors."

Hermione smiled back at him and gave him an impulsive hug. "Thanks, Dobby," she said brightly, finishing her pumpkin juice. "Back to the library," she announced.

"Hermione, how do you know it was a he?"

She shrugged. "Oh, Ron. If the last Pelerand was a she, this Pelerand wouldn't be a Pelerand."

"Oh. Right." Ron picked up another sandwich on their way out.

Ryan was grateful he had some idea what to expect. The reality of the Death Eaters' ceremonies was both more terrible and more comical than he envisioned. The cavern underneath the drawing room was paved in symbols and runes. Arcane patterns swept around the floor in dark paint that might have been something else. Several cauldrons stood around the room, bubbling softly. A few pedestals held closed boxes, also out of the way of the centre. Ryan reflected that it looked more like a scene out of Crowley, Buckland, or even Lovecraft, than a real dark arts chamber.

As if by tacit agreement, the newly chosen recruits drifted to the edges of the room and observed as the experienced Death Eaters took up places along the circles. They didn't bother with masks inside, Ryan noted absently. A white-haired man, one Ryan hadn't met, led the opening incantation. Knife in hand, he sealed the room from intrusion and invoked the names of old, forgotten gods.

Ryan paid close attention to the ceremonies. There was no doubt as to their authenticity; likewise, there could be no denying their power. He tasted the promises of the dark and understood its appeal. He tried to follow the other children's reactions to what they witnessed, but the ritual itself was more compelling than registering their fear, fascination, avarice, or revulsion. Dimly he realised that they were all drifting into an odd, trance-like state. For what seemed like hours, he stood between Draco and Crabbe, until the spells lifted and they all resurfaced, figuratively and literally, from the effects of the chamber. They went to bed immediately.

Many guests left the next day, including the Hogwarts professor, and more the following day. Soon enough, Ryan packed up his things into his little suitcase and descended the stairs, meeting Draco at the landing. They walked together to the foyer, said goodbye to Lucius and Narcissa (who was suspiciously circumspect), and began the journey back to Hogwart's. In the short ride to King's Cross, both Ryan and Draco were subdued, though Ryan suspected for different reasons.

It seemed to him, watching Draco that week, that he had largely been shielded from his father's activities up until recently. He was certainly proud of being able to throw a curse, or manipulate his friends, and he had the same mean streak which treated Ryan to a hangover. But he hadn't actually seen the Death Eaters in action, Ryan was certain. Joining Voldemort's forces came as a knee-jerk reaction for the boy. Would he reconsider his choice over time? 

And what about the others? There was something going on with Goyle, Ryan thought, but he couldn't tell what. And it wasn't like he could suddenly become a father confessor for him, without raising even Goyle's suspicions. He suppressed a sigh. One way or another, it would sort itself.

When they met Goyle and Crabbe on the train, Draco perked up considerably. Though they had parted only days before, he made a show of recounting everything as if they had shared a grand adventure. Macabre as the thought was, Ryan reflected, he supposed they had done.

Hermione was beside herself. She recalled that there were some old annuals in the back of the library near the copies of Hogwarts, A History. But she couldn't find the 1860 edition, or indeed, anything from that period.

"There must be something," she said to Ron, who against his better judgement had agreed to search with her. "They started using silver nitrate for photos in the 1850's, so they might have taken a few here by 1860…." 

"Look!" Ron said, flipping through an annual. He showed her an ancient tintype of Gryffindor House in an annual marked 1862. It didn't even move, it was so old. Near the back was a familiar looking face.

"A. Dumbledore," Ron read from the list of names in the caption.

"But that's two years after the last Pelerand graduated," Hermione protested. "We need one before 1860."

"Why?" Ron protested.

"Because I want to see whether those Pelerands look anything like this one."

"Hermione, are you sure this is just for Harry's good?"

"What do you mean, Ron?" Hermione said, sounding scandalized.

"It's just…I think Harry can take care of himself. You seem awfully interested in Pelerand. Are you sure it's not just because, maybe, you like him?"

Hermione's eyes widened. "Ron! Didn't we go over this last year, with Viktor?"

Ron shrugged. "Ryan's a lot better looking than Viktor, and you went to the ball with him," he muttered.

"I'm not having this conversation," Hermione said decisively. "We just fight whenever we talk about things like that." She fell silent, and Ron let it go. She pulled down a copy of Hogwarts, A History and flipped through it, checking something. "It's so strange, though," she observed again after a minute more of scanning the shelves.. "They started including pictures in the annuals in 1855, according to the book. There should be several years showing Pelerands in Gryffindor. But they're not here."

"Wait—Hermione. There's something fallen behind the case." Ron dropped to the floor and cleared off a section of the books on the bottom shelf. Amid the thick dust, there was a thin volume, bound in red leather, bearing the Hogwarts seal. It said, "1859."

"Good show, Ron," Hermione said admiringly. They flipped open the book carefully. There was a carefully labelled bookplate announcing that school annuals were reference only and not to be checked out. Its pages were dusty and dry, and despite Hermione's care, the corners ripped as they turned over. In the centre, each house photograph took up an entire opening. They flipped the pages to Gryffindor House's photo, and scanned it. 

"There!" Ron said, pointing. "Wow. It looks just like him," he said slowly.

"Yes, except—there's something about the face…Thinner? That's not it."

"His ears are bigger," observed Ron, who was conscious of things like large ears, hands, and feet.

"Yes, and they—Ron? Have you got a magnifying glass?"

"Er—no, I left it in my detective kit, Hermione."

"Hm. I've got one up in the tower. Come on," she said, placing the book on the nearest table and rushing back up to Gryffindor's portrait hole.

Harry was in the common room, working on the last of his essay for Trelawney. The spring term started the next day and he and Ron had Divination that afternoon.

"Find anything?" He asked distractedly as they came in.

"Yeah, we found an old picture that looks just like Ryan Pelerand," Ron said, flopping into a chair by the fire to catch his breath. Hermione kept going into the girls' dormitory.

"Can I see it?" Harry asked, looking up.

"It's down in the library," Ron said. "Hermione wanted to get a magnifying glass. Why she didn't bring one in the first place…."

"Our Hermione's been acting funny about Pelerand for a while, Ron," Harry said. "If you ask me, she's not thinking straight."

"Yeah, that's what I told her. I'm a little worried."

Harry shrugged. "She's always after one thing or another. You remember, Moody—Crouch, I should say—said she'd make a good Auror. It's 'cause she's always paranoid," he concluded.

They laughed softly. Hermione came back in with the magnifying glass. "Got it. Harry, want to come with us and have a look? I don't think Madam Pince would let us take the book out of the library."

"Okay," Harry said with a shrug, happy to put aside his I-Ching journal for the moment.

The three of them crawled through the portrait hole and went back to the library. On the way, they met several Gryffindors just getting back from the train. It held them up a few minutes, saying hello and catching up on Christmas. When they got to the library, Madam Pince was just leaving.

"Please, only we found something in reference, and we just need five minutes to have a look," Hermione said in her most studious voice.

"All right," Madam Pince said with a sniff. "No more than five minutes." She even conjured a small hourglass and turned it immediately.

The three students rushed to the table where the book had lain. But it was gone. "Oh, no," Hermione said.

"Wait," Ron continued. "She must have shelved all those books. See?" He pointed to the section which he removed to get the annual. The books were all sitting neatly back on the shelves. "Maybe she put the annual back, too."

He looked on the shelf with the other Hogwarts annuals. They skipped from 1850 to, "1861," He said, confusion apparent in his voice.

"It's gone?" Harry said, frowning. "Who could have hidden it?"

"More like _why_ did they hide it?" Hermione corrected darkly.

"Maybe Hermione's not so paranoid as we thought," Ron commented to Harry.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Hermione answered, rolling her eyes. They left the library, feeling quite out of sorts.

Operation Transfusion held a meeting that very night. Those select few whom Lucius had signed on as bona fide followers of Voldemort lost no time using their status to intimidate and impress the others. Draco particularly behaved as if he owned the world, though this was not terribly different from usual. 

"Order!" He demanded in the common room when all the outsiders had been told to study in their dormitories. He began without preamble.

"The Event will occur on Friday, 19th January, nearly dark of the moon. That's two weeks and Friday, so we'll have plenty of time for a couple dry runs. Now, here's the overall plan:

"One Mudblood student of each house will be kidnapped. We'll be discussing potential targets later. We'll kidnap them right after dinner, before everyone is in their common rooms for the night. With any luck, the teachers won't put things together until class Monday morning. By then, we'll have sent our demands to the Board of Governors. We'll need to take turns over the weekend guarding them. No one under fifth year is to guard.

"We'll keep them at the Shrieking Shack. Pelerand can open a secret tunnel from the grounds to the shack. There's no other way into it, and it's off school grounds, so they won't think to look for it. The hard part is going to be getting shifts in and out of the entrance to the tunnel. But I've got a plan for that, too."

He gestured to Felicia Avery, Stelmaria Nott, and another fifth-year girl named Blaise Zabini. "Ladies, your mission is to get Harry Potter's invisibility cloak. Do whatever you need to get it, but we must have it by this week-end. It's the full moon—we're going to test it to make sure no one can see us even in the moonlight." 

The girls nodded solemnly. Stelmaria said, "We've already got a plan."

"Good. Now, we'll take turns using the invisibility cloak to get to the tunnel and back to school. We'll give the Board one week to meet our demands."

"What exactly are our demands?" Ryan asked.

"We want the Board of Governors to send all the Mudblood students packing and exert a promise from Dumbledore that he won't admit any more, or if not, get a new Headmaster who will do as we say."

"And our threat, if they don't do?"

"They'll meet our demands," Draco said icily, "or we turn the students over to the Death Eaters."

"I see," Ryan said with an appreciative nod.

"We'll have to keep them fed, but not with a lot," Draco continued. "If they do kick all the Mudbloods out, which I doubt, we'll have to return them to their parents relatively unscathed. Doesn't mean we can't hex them a few times to keep them in line, but try not to use anything with lasting side effects." The common room filled with polite laughter.

"So, sign up for your shifts, according to your schedules. It's inevitable that some of us will have to skip classes for this, but we'll secure passes through Professor Snape."

"Is he aware of this?" Ryan asked, surprised.

"Of course not, Pelerand," Draco sneered. "But he'll do what Father tells him to do."

"Right, makes sense," Ryan said quickly, covering himself. From the little he'd seen of Snape, grudges or no, he'd never allow kidnapping to occur if he could help it. But if he refused to help Lucius…. Draco had a point. In the double-agent game, Snape's situation was a bit more tightly wedged between "rock" and "hard place" than Ryan's.

They passed around timetables and sign-up sheets. Ryan couldn't guard, because he had to stop the willow from whomping at every shift change. Luckily, they scheduled six hour shifts, so he only had to sneak out four times a day. He wished someone else could shoot. They'd never use Maloriel's bow while he had a say in it, but he could lend the blunted arrows and at least get a full night's sleep that week.

Then again, he thought as they discussed the potential hostages, if he could get a message to Albus about this, it might be over sooner than it started. They already knew the Shrieking Shack was the target destination. Now he knew the rest of the plan. He couldn't risk getting "sent" to the Headmaster again. But McGonagall knew the truth. Perhaps…he could get a message to Dumbledore through her.

Classes started the next day. No attacks from Operation Transfusion could be detected, and the teachers and students widely felt that perhaps their parents had put a stop to things over the holiday. But the three Slytherin ladies, Felicia, Stelmaria, and Blaise, put their plan in motion immediately to capture Harry's cloak.

"Wait, Harry!" Blaise called, crossing boldly across the hall to him after lunch that day.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned on their way to class. Harry pointed on finger at himself and said, "Are you talking to me?"

"Of course," Blaise said breezily. "I wanted to ask you a question."

"If it's something Malfoy asked you to ask me—"

"No—no, nothing like that. It's—well," she glanced from side to side. "It's sort of personal. Do you think we could step aside for a moment?" She batted her eyes.

Still a little stung by Cho's rejection back at Halloween, Harry weighed his options briefly. On the one hand, Blaise was a Slytherin. On the other, she was by far the best-looking Slytherin girl in their year, and he thought she was actually prettier than Padma, Pavarti, or Lavender. "Uh, okay," he said dubiously. He turned to Ron and Hermione. "I won't be a minute; you go on ahead." Frowning, the two left him alone with Blaise.

"What's this about then?" He asked brusquely.

"Well, really, it's Felicia."

"Felicia?"

"Avery. She's in fourth year. She tried out for the Slytherin house team, but Malfoy wouldn't put her on because she's a girl." Blaise didn't disguise her genuine disdain for Draco's roster choices. She went on to explain, "Felicia was hoping maybe you could help her flying, so next year he won't have an excuse to keep her off the team. But she's too shy to ask you."

"So she asked you to ask me?" Harry said, squinting in disbelief.

"Not exactly…see, I just thought it would be nice if…"

"Nice?" Harry said louder than he intended. It echoed in the emptying hall. "Since when should I be nice to a Slytherin?"

"Oh, Harry," Blaise said, looking hurt. "Just because we're in Slytherin doesn't mean we're all like Malfoy. You can't even imagine what it's like, to be a decent person in that house. And Felicia's pretty good: all she needs are a few tips. Couldn't you meet her on the pitch for a lesson or two?"

"If I help her, and she makes the team, she'll be playing against me," Harry pointed out.

Blaise responded with a high-pitched snort. "And here I thought Harry Potter was such a good sport about things. You know, in Hufflepuff, they don't blame you for Cedric, because Cedric was always telling them how fair you were during Quidditch, and the Tri-Wizard Tournament," she said with a sidelong look. Mentioning Cedric softened Harry's expression, just as she imagined it would.

"Oh, all right," Harry sighed. "I've got to get to class. Tell her to meet me this evening."

"I will. Thanks, Harry," Blaise favoured him with a million-galleon smile.

It was already growing dark when Harry came out to the pitch. Felicia was waiting with her broom, bundled in a fur-lined cloak. 

"We don't have much time before it gets too dark to see," Harry said. "What do you need to work on the most?"

"Oh," Felicia said with a little laugh, "I guess my turns. I have a little trouble hanging on to the broom."

"Okay," Harry said, naïve in the face of her coy demeanour.

They kicked off and stuck close to the ground, using the relative shelter of the stands to shield them from the wind. There wasn't much snow on the ground, but the temperature sank rapidly as the dark closed in. Felicia struck a balance between a good enough flyer to lend credence to Blaise's story, and just clumsy enough to need instruction at closer quarters. Twice she "accidentally" brushed Harry's cloak while banking for a turn. He shook his head and called her back down to earth.

"Look, we've—careful!" He said, reaching out reflexively. Felicia "stumbled" on her robes while dismounting the broom, and fell toward him. He caught her, but reeled a bit at her sudden weight in his arms.

"Oh!" She said, giggling. "Sorry. I guess I'm just not very co-ordinated today. Good thing your reflexes are so quick. And you're so strong," she said provocatively.

"Huh?" Harry said, oblivious. "Look, we're out of light. Have you read any books on Quidditch?"

Felicia shook her head. She let her teeth begin to chatter.

"Come on, let's get in. You must be freezing," Harry offered to carry her broom for her and they walked back up to the castle entrance.

"Anyway, you should probably read Quidditch Through the Ages. I'll loan you my copy."

"Thanks," Felicia said. "You're so nice, Harry."

"Hm," Harry said, not really listening.

"I mean," Felicia went on quickly, "most Gryffindors wouldn't even think about helping a Slytherin, would they? But you don't judge us all by Draco, do you?"

"I guess not," Harry said with a shrug. "I mean—" He broke off, thinking better of what he was about to say.

"What?"

"Oh, just…not even all Gryffindors are perfect. So there must be some Slytherins who are okay, too."

Felicia smiled. "There are. It's just hard, you know, when there's so much pressure to be bad. Taunting the Mu—Muggle-born students, and such. Sometimes I wish I were in Gryffindor."

They reached the giant double doors and went inside, sighing at the change in temperature. "Well, thanks again for the lesson—even though it was short." Felicia said, taking off her cloak's hood. "I'd really like to read that book of yours. Could I come and get it?"

"Um…I'll bring it to breakfast tomorrow," Harry offered, not wanting to climb up there now, when it was almost time for dinner.

"How about tonight?" Felicia asked quickly, then smiled. "It's just that I don't have any homework yet, since the break. And by the end of class tomorrow, who knows what we'll be doing?"

"Well…Okay," Harry shrugged. "After dinner, then. I'll meet you—"

"I could go up to your common room entrance with you," Felicia offered innocently. "Not to go in, of course, but I could wait outside for it."

"Er…" Harry hesitated. If she came with him, she would hear the password. "How about the library?" He offered instead.

Felicia blushed. "Oh—you must think I'm awful," she said petulantly. "After all, I can't be trusted to know where your common room entrance is, can I? I might tell all the others and who knows what they'd do with it? Oh, I'm sorry, Harry, that was a stupid suggestion." She berated herself a little more until two big tears escaped her eyes and she sniffed dejectedly.

"No," Harry consoled her awkwardly. "It's not that. It's…." He tried to think of another reason. "It's just I've got some research to do. So the library's better for me."

Felicia sniffed again, but smiled. "Of course," she said. "How silly of me to worry. One minute I'm saying you're trusting and—wonderful, and the next, I'm accusing you of being just like the rest of my house."

"W-wonderful?" Harry repeated, a quizzical look on his face. 

"Mm-hmm," Felicia said, biting her lip shyly. "Very wonderful, indeed." She blushed and smiled. "May I have my broom back?" She asked.

Harry nodded and swung the broomsticks off his shoulder. Felicia stepped closer to take her broom, pretended to slip, and knocked into him again. Once again, Harry's lightning reflexes took charge and he reached out to steady her. She looked up at him with glowing eyes, and kissed him. Smiling, without another word, she picked up her broom from the floor and walked into the great hall, leaving Harry in a daze.

Harry's distraction was apparent during dinner, but Ron couldn't get him to talk about it there. Afterwards, he tried to get his friend to come down to the common room and work on their Dark Arts homework, but Harry mumbled that he was meeting someone.

"Meeting who?" Ron asked Harry's back. But Harry grabbed his Quidditch book and hurried out to meet Felicia.

He was still thinking about her kiss. It was really the first time he had kissed anyone. Earlier that summer, in the aftermath of Cedric's memorial, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had all sat in the field behind the Weasley's garden and had a serious talk about things. The tension between Ron and Hermione was palpable to Harry, and he wondered if they'd ever admit it. But they all agreed that it would be "too weird" to date anyone in their little trio. And since Cho was still understandably upset over Cedric, Harry had never really kissed anyone else. Felicia Avery was all right, he supposed. She was the same age as Ginny. She sort of blushed and giggled a bit like Ginny used to do up until the end of last year. He always found it a little annoying in Ginny, but then he never had quite forgiven her for that awful Valentine's song the dwarf sang to him in the hallway. It didn't help that he'd been pinned under the dwarf and what felt like a quarter of the school witnessed it, including Draco Malfoy. But Ginny wasn't paying that much attention to him anymore. He supposed, bitterly, that the novelty had warn off. Felicia acted more like those girls hanging around Krum all the time last year. He couldn't quite work out whether he liked it or not. 

He wandered into the library with his head still full of these strange thoughts. Girls, hero-worship, kissing—it was really a new world for him. He wished Sirius were around to talk to, or even Professor Lupin. Someone who would make one feel at ease. But there was Felicia, waiting at one of the large tables, waving.

"Here's the book," Harry said. To avoid having to talk to her further, he turned to leave.

"Wait!" Felicia whispered urgently. "Didn't you say you had research to do?"

"Oh—yeah," Harry said sadly. He reversed himself and went further into the stacks. Felicia jumped up and followed him.

"What are you working on?" She asked in hushed tones.

"Um…a Divination essay," Harry said, picking the subject that came first to his mind.

"Really? I'm taking Divination. Maybe I could get a head start by working with you."

"I don't think so," Harry protested. He ducked into an aisle between two stacks. It was a mistake. The stack was a dead end, and now he was trapped.

"Harry, did I do something wrong?" Felicia asked, closing in on him.

"Uh, no, not really…" Harry stammered.

"Then why are you running away?" She asked simply.

"I dunno," Harry shrugged. 

"Do you really have an essay to study for?" She asked with a concerned smile.

"Well…no," Harry shook his head apologetically. "I just…"

"Don't want to be seen with a Slytherin?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "I mean, no, I mean—"

"I understand," Felicia said dejectedly. "I wish there were a way we could sit together, without anyone _seeing_ us," she said in a leading way.

"Well, we could go to a disused classroom, I suppose," Harry suggested.

"They're all closed up, this time of night," Felicia countered. "Do you know any disguise spells?" She asked, as if brainstorming.

"Just polyjuice potion, and that takes a whole month to prepare," Harry said dubiously, unsure where they would end up with this train of thought.

"Oh." Felicia worried her lip a bit with her teeth. It was an attractive habit, and she knew it, but she did it artlessly. "Say!" She said, immediately dropping her voice again. "I heard Draco say something in the common room once, about how one day two years ago, your head appeared by itself in Hogsmeade."

"Uh, what about it?" Said Harry with a swallow.

"Did you project yourself there or something? I mean, do you know any spells so we could 'be' somewhere we're not?"

"No," replied Harry, feeling stupid. "He only saw my head because my hood fell down. I was wearing an invisibility cloak." Even as he heard himself saying it, Harry thought, "You dunce! Why did you tell her that? No one was supposed to know you were there. And why on earth did you tell her about the cloak?"

"An invisibility cloak!" Felicia gasped. "Really? A real invisibility cloak? Oh, Harry, those are really rare, did you know that?"

"Uh, yeah," Harry said, feeling sick. "Now she'll want to see it," he told himself.

"Could I—I mean, do you think I could see it?" She asked, wide-eyed with excitement.

"Well, it's up in my dormitory…" Harry hedged. He didn't want to show it to her at all, much less drag back up to the seventh floor portrait hole, up the tower, and back down to the library.

"Of course," Felicia said. "Maybe tomorrow? Could you bring it here after dinner again? I won't tell anyone, I promise," she added quickly. "Not a soul."

"I dunno," Harry said again, feeling rotten for refusing, but not sure why. "I've got a lot to do tomorrow…"

"Well, one night this week, you must have a little time. Please?" Felicia took another step closer and batted her eyes.

"You're not going to kiss me again, are you?" Harry said before he thought, flinching involuntarily.

"Do you want me to do?" Felicia asked in her best imitation of a coquette.

"No," Harry said too firmly. He swallowed again. "All right," he agreed, feeling flustered and hot and uncomfortable and unsure why. "I'll meet you here on Thursday night. I can think up an excuse by then. And you can see it. But it's not that interesting," he lied. He thought the cloak was fascinating, and loved watching its ripples catch the light when it wasn't being worn. It was practically the only legacy he had from his father, besides an impersonal, though dead useful, pile of galleons at Gringott's. 

"Thursday. Brilliant. I can't wait, Harry," Felicia said with admiration. "I'm sorry if you didn't like it when I kissed you," she went on.

"Er…it's okay," Harry said, at a loss. "I was just startled, that's all. But let's just not go there again, all right?"

"Whatever you say, Harry," Felicia agreed with a secret smile.

Blaise, Felicia, and Stelmaria made short work of getting the cloak on Thursday night. Harry was too embarrassed to tell anyone he'd been triple-hexed by a bunch of girls, much less that he had agreed to meet because of a pretty smile. It was too confusing to think about, so he just didn't mention the theft of the cloak to anyone, even Ron. Felicia, in a rare mood of generosity, promised she'd bring it back to him as soon as they were done with it. He hoped she meant it, but he'd worry about getting it back later. He was sure he would get it back, one way or another. It was the only thing he had that belonged to his father. He had to get it back. He just had to do it without telling anyone he'd lost it.

Thursday evening's Transfusion meeting opened with their report on the cloak.

"It's big enough for at least two people to walk under it," Blaise explained while Felicia and Stelmaria demonstrated. "So the new shift can put it on, sneak out, and take it to the old shift, who goes back to the castle wearing it."

"Close. The new shift and Ryan wear it out, Ryan stays in it while the shift changes, and he and the old shift come back wearing it," Malcolm corrected them. "Good. We'll do a dry run Saturday, when it's a little easier to get away at night. Now, nominations for abduction."

"David Rupaj," Draco said immediately.

"He's a sixth year, Draco," Avery said. "I thought we weren't going to—"

"He's Ravenclaw's captain," Draco cut back in. "The match is scheduled for the day after we take everyone. If he's not at the match—"

"Two ravens with one stone," Antonius Flint said with a wicked smile. "Nice thinking, Malfoy."

"All right," Avery decided. He made a note. "David Rupaj, Ravenclaw. How about Hufflepuff?"

Stelmaria said, "Katie Thomas. She's a second year. Her mother's a Muggle stylist somewhere."

"Any other nominations?"

"What about their Quidditch team?" Montague suggested.

"No good; first of all, they've too many alternates. Second, we don't want this to look like we're targeting Quidditch players; only Mudbloods," Draco drawled impatiently.

"How about Vicki Lang?" Asked Pansy.

"Ooh, brilliant," Emma said. "I can't stand her."

"What's her background?" Avery asked.

"Well, her father's a Muggle journalist."

"No good; they'll have it all over the papers she's been kidnapped."

They wrangled a while longer over the names, but finally reached decisions for all four houses, including their own. Ryan took careful note of the names, committing them to memory until he could write them down unnoticed.

The meeting broke up, but Draco didn't come up to the dormitories straight away. Ryan thought he saw the boy and Pansy Parkinson slip through the common room entrance as everyone else was leaving. With a paternal shake of his head, he went up to bed, hoping the two had nothing too serious planned. 

Goyle, Crabbe, and Frome prepared for bed as well. Frome chattered lightly about the direction Transfusion was taking, and how it would be pleasant to have Hogwarts all to themselves in a month or so. Ryan couldn't share his confidence, but nodded in all the right places. Just as the others all settled, Ryan saw Goyle fish out his book from beneath his pillow. But then the boy closed his curtains with a furtive glance and only the light of his wand glowed from behind them.

Ryan wondered what would await him in Potions class. It was his first real encounter with Snape since the altercation in Lucius's drawing room. Would Snape still treat him with kid gloves, or would the indignity begin to fester? Apparently, it wasn't clear to Snape, either, just how he meant to act around Ryan. But Ryan didn't have much time to worry about it. He was too busy worrying about Hermione—again.

The clever witch seemed to watch him all through the lab. She paid attention to her cauldron, of course, but every time Ryan looked up, he could feel Hermione's eyes on his. It had been the same in their Arithmancy class on Tuesday. 

He caught up with the small knot of Gryffindors after class. "At the risk of a Weasley beating, Miss Granger, could I have a word?" He asked.

"Only one?" Ron asked hotly.

"It's all right, Ron," Hermione cautioned. "As long as it's not a hex."

"No," Ryan said sincerely.

"All right then." She said, but made no move. "Better hurry; I'll not be late for Charms."

"Unchaperoned?" Ryan asked. A look of doubt crossed both Harry's and Ron's faces. "I'll even leave my wand with you two, all right?" He offered, holding it backward to them.

"Oh, all right," Hermione conceded. Ron accepted the wand. Ryan and the young witch took a few steps further down the corridor.

"I just wanted to ask, have I grown a second nose or something?" Ryan said in his most disarming way.

"What?" Hermione said with a start.

"Well, you seem to have been studying me a lot lately. More than our subjects, in point of fact. I just wanted to make sure everything's all right."

Unaccustomed to this brand of confrontation, Hermione blushed. "Why, yes," she said, but then quickly and firmly added, "No. No it's not. What do you know about your family who went here in the 1800's?"

Ryan paused, fighting the urge to laugh. She was getting nearer, no mistake. He shrugged. "Not much. They were in Gryffindor, weren't they?"

"I don't believe you," Hermione said shrewdly. "Do you have any idea why the Hogwarts annuals years 1851 to 1860 are missing from the reference section of the library?"

"Are they?" Ryan said, truly surprised. "I'd no idea," he mused.

"So you are aware that there were members of the Pelerand family here at that time?"

"Yes, I'm aware of it," Ryan said. "Why should the annuals—oh, the photos!" He answered himself. 

Hermione's colour rose. "Yes, the photos. Did you steal those annuals?"

"No, I didn't. Sorry." He felt a swift end to the interrogation in order. "You'd better go. You'll be late for charms," he said. 

Hermione fumed at the dismissal, but she couldn't deny that they would be late without a move on. She glared back at the young men and said, "Come on, we're leaving," and walked off crossly.

Ryan held out his hand for his wand as Ron passed him. Ron gave it back, but turned round as he went by and wouldn't take his eyes off the Elf until they were on the stairwell. Ryan smiled and looked up at the ceiling. "Albus, you sneaky old bugger," he chuckled, and went off, late himself, to his next class.

"It just occurs to me: he knew about the photos," Hermione announced in the common room that night.

"Maybe he's read, Hogwarts, a History," Ron suggested. 

"But why would he figure out that the annuals were missing because of the photos?" Hermione said to herself.

"Ask Dumbledore," Harry said.

"Are you daft?" Ron asked, but Hermione shushed him.

"What do you mean, Harry?"

"Didn't you say you found one from 1862, with a picture of Dumbledore? Then wouldn't he have been a student while that Pelerand was here? He'd have known him."

"You're right!" Ron said.

"Maybe he took the annuals."

"But why?"

"I dunno," Harry said with a yawn. "That's why you should ask him."

"We can't just go up there and ask, can we?" Hermione mused incredulously. "I mean, seriously, can we?"

"Well, he's never objected when I've gone there," Harry shrugged. "Course, we don't know his password, do we?" He stood, stretched, and announced, "I'm for bed."

Ron echoed his friend's intention. As they said goodnight, Hermione pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and drafted a note to the Headmaster. She'd work out how to deliver it when it was done.

The trial run went smoothly and Transfusion operatives spent the weekend compiling lists of supplies and learning the spells they'd need to cast on the Shrieking Shack, including an obfuscation ward and a silence charm so the hostages couldn't scream for help. Ryan looked forward to Monday's Transfiguration class, when he could pass his note to McGonagall.

He handed her a rolled parchment at the beginning of class. "Professor, here's that extra homework you asked for," he said in a helpful, even sycophantic tone.

"What?" Professor McGonagall peered over her glasses at him. "Oh, yes. That essay," she said suddenly, as if she'd forgotten she assigned it. "Thank you, Pelerand. You may take your seat." As he hoped, she put the roll in a desk drawer for later.

"You didn't tell us you were doing extra credit," Draco muttered at him as they left class.

"It's not; it's an old detention assignment. She got a glimpse of my sword. Took it away and made me write that. Spiteful witch," Ryan explained with a dark expression.

"Well, they'll sit up and notice soon, won't they?" Draco offered as reassurance.

Indeed, they did sit up and notice, but not exactly the way Transfusion hoped. Between classes, Professor McGonagall scanned his cryptic note to Dumbledore. To anyone else, it looked like an essay on Transfiguring complex machinery. But toward the bottom of the roll, a paragraph appeared in Greek. Ostensibly a quotation, it read instead:

"Children to be held hostage, one per house. Don't stop it—would lead to questions. They won't be harmed. Tell A they will be in Hogsmeade, in the fright at the end of the tunnel."

So, on Friday, when a few students disappeared, the teachers didn't react immediately.

It happened between dinner and the end of the evening. With the exception of David Rupaj, who was in his sixth year, all the hostages were young and easy to catch. They lured Katie Thomas of Hufflepuff into an empty classroom with a mirage spell, then stupefied her. Crabbe suggested that they drug Jason Prill, a Slytherin first-year, with a cake containing a sleeping draught, though he wouldn't acknowledge to anyone where he came up with the idea. Montague, Warrington, and Bole ganged up on Rupaj and bound him with tight cords from their wands. And another first-year in Gryffindor, Stephanie Boot, was fooled by a forged note to meet her "secret admirer" by greenhouse number 2. Once they were all caught, Operation Transfusion hid their wands in the common room.

Under cover of the dark sky, six or seven wizards and witches herded their charges to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. They all hovered just along the tree line while Ryan strung his bow efficiently and aimed a blunted arrow at the knot. Just as he loosed his first shot, another large figure came running toward them, carrying someone over his shoulder. A hand hit his shoulder and the shot went wide, landing in the forest with the crisp rustle of branches.

"Goyle!" Malfoy hissed. "What in hell are you doing? Only one student from each house!"

Goyle looked perplexed. "You said you wanted to get Weasley back," he said in a pitiful voice.

"What about it?"

"Well, I thought we'd—"

"You thought! There's a laugh!"

"Gentlemen, please!" Ryan said calmly. "A little quiet, if you don't mind." He aimed again. The shaft hit the knot on the willow with enough force to push it in, and the tree's massive limbs froze. A section of the trunk opened.

"Hurry up," Avery said, moving forward quietly with his hostage floating behind him.

"Come on. We'll sort this out when we get there," Draco said disgustedly. They made their way into the tunnel, squeezing through the muddy opening and walking doubled over. Avery cast _mobilicorpus_ on the unconscious form which Goyle brought with him, covered in a dark cloak.

They reached the shack and levitated their hostages inside. Over the last few weeks, they had supplied the little room with blankets, pillows, and food to keep their charges from starving and freezing to death. 

"Let's see what you've done now, Goyle," Malfoy demanded. Goyle hesitated a second, but removed the sleeping girl's cloak. Long red hair cascaded out of the hood.

"Ginny Weasley?" Malfoy asked somewhere between a groan and a gasp.

"She's Ron's sister," Goyle explained unnecessarily.

"I know that, you idiot, but she's a pure-blood!" Malfoy shouted at him. "Though admittedly a poor excuse for one. Why in the name of Slytherin did you take her?"

Goyle shrugged. "Revenge on Weasley," He said dejectedly.

"Oh…All right," Malfoy said. "It's done now. Leave her." He made himself comfortable for the first watch, while the others checked the bonds and filed down the creaking stairs.

Ryan couldn't silence his question. Once they got into the tunnel, he put a hand on Goyle's arm and held him back a pace or two from the others. "Was that really why you took her?" He asked.

Goyle shrugged. "I think she has pretty hair," he said sadly.

"There are better ways to tell a girl you like her," Ryan told him gently.

Goyle shrugged again. "May as well be Quasimodo to her Esmeralda, for all the good it'll do me. Don't tell Draco, okay?" He pulled away, which was awkward in the tight space of the tunnel, and followed the others up to the surface.

Ryan couldn't decide which was more surprising: Goyle professing admiration of a Weasley sibling, or the fact that he used a literary analogy to do it. Perhaps there was much more to Goyle than he let on. Unfortunately, now was by far not the time to investigate that any further. With a shuddering, ancient-feeling sigh, he moved along, wondering how best to sabotage Transfusion's big event.

A/N: Oh, Hermione! Put it all together, girl. You're so close…..You'll get it very soon, I bet…. Gosh, people are noticing this piece more than I realised! Reviews make me so happy: thanks to everyone who dropped me a note. And bestest, my love, who reminds me to breathe and slow down. I'm trying to keep canon at my fingertips during this process, but the folks at work are beginning to suspect. I'm having trouble convincing them all that the four Harry Potter books on my desk are just for lunch-time reading. Oh, well. Teen angst will make an unavoidable appearance in the next chapter, but there will be more action than this time. Valentine's Day also arrives, and perhaps some other friends come to call…. Stay tuned!


	9. Aftershock

__

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretences. As a Slytherin, he befriended Draco Malfoy to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, Hermione almost discovered the truth, but someone prevented her from seeing the last piece of evidence she needed. But before she had a chance to investigate further, the members of Operation Tranfusion launched their anticipated Event….

Ginny listened to the sounds around her. She lay on a hard floor, covered by a single blanket. Or was it a cloak? The ground wasn't damp, and more than one person was moving around. It couldn't be a nightmare about Tom, could it?

"See you in a few hours, then," a girl's voice said. No, it wasn't a dream, and it certainly wasn't the Chamber again. Her hands were tied behind her back.

"Are you all right?" Another voice asked, this one pleasant and deeper. Ginny opened her eyes and looked around.

The room was pretty dark. Weak light filled it with eerie shadows. There was a makeshift bed on one side of the room, with one or two figures piled on top of it. A brunette sat on the only chair, reading by the light of her wand, the same light that filtered over to Ginny. With a bit of a struggle, she sat up.

"Are you all right?" He repeated. Ginny shifted and saw him.

He was tied up even more tightly than she, sitting against the wall with many cords pinning his arms to his sides. His longish black hair offset dark skin and deep brown eyes. He smiled encouragingly, flashing straight, bright teeth. Ginny smiled back shyly.

"Ginny Weasley, right?"

"Yes. Let me guess, you know my brothers," Ginny said with mild annoyance.

"Well, of course," the young man said, "but I also know you're the only girl. I'm David Rupaj," he said.

The girl sitting on the chair looked up sharply. "Shut it, Mudblood," she said. "I'm studying."

David jerked his head to Ginny, indicating she should move closer. Ginny hesitated. She cleared her throat and asked,

"May I go sit by the wall?"

Their captor looked surprised. "I guess," she said with a shrug. "But no talking."

Ginny nodded, muttered her thanks, and rolled onto her knees. She crawled over to the wall and plopped against it. She smiled at David again, who smiled back apologetically. She tried to stay awake, but eventually dozed again. She woke hours later, stiff and sore, but still against David's side.

As more light began to stream through the cracks in the walls and the boarded windows, the figures on the bed stirred. They heard noise in a different room; steps coming up a flight of stairs. Two people came in and spoke to the girl. Ginny nudged David a bit with her shoulder, but he shook his head. Ginny sighed and leaned back against the wall. She'd have to do this herself.

"Any trouble?"

"No. The young ones are waking up, though. Don't let them get chatty," she said with a thumb jerked toward where Ginny and David sat next to each other.

"Okay," said the new guard, who took up a similar position to watch her charges. She was blonde and pretty, but with a pug nose which made her look impossibly conceited. A large boy muttered that he'd be downstairs if she needed anything, and left with the first girl.

"Pansy?" Ginny asked softly when the sound of footsteps faded. "Pansy Parkinson, right?"

Pansy looked at her a moment before speaking. "Yes," she answered in a clipped tone. She opened a textbook.

"But you're in my brother's class—you know Ron," Ginny insisted, looking for a way to chip the girl's exterior.

"So?" The young woman sneered. Ginny tried a more direct approach.

"What's going on here, Pansy?"

"None of your business, Muggle-lover," Pansy retorted stiffly. "You shouldn't even be here."

Before Ginny could ask what that meant, the "young ones" regained consciousness. Katie Thomas, the Hufflepuff second-year, began asking questions immediately, but Pansy silenced her with a lockjaw hex. 

"That wasn't necessary," Ginny said slowly.

"Be quiet," Pansy answered with a little less vehemence than before, "or you'll get the same."

Stephanie Boot began to sniffle, then large tears dripped over her cheeks. Ginny caught Pansy's eye and held it.

"At least let me keep them from crying," she requested reasonably. She didn't flinch or look away as Pansy raised her wand. But instead of cursing the redhead, she uttered a spell which untied the girl's ropes.

"Keep them quiet, and you can stay untied," she said grudgingly. Ginny shook her hands and rubbed them to get the blood moving again. They tingled horribly, but she didn't complain. She patted David's arm once before moving to the bed.

"Where are we?" David asked, clearing his throat. The hours of not speaking left him sounding hoarse.

"Somewhere you won't be found," Pansy answered smugly.

"I'm hungry," announced Jason Prill. Pansy glared at him, but went into the corner and fished out a bag of chocolate frogs. She tossed them on the bed. She sat down again, wand out and ready.

Ginny opened a package and gave the chocolate to Stephanie. "Can you tell us what this is about?" She asked Pansy.

"I hardly think you need to know," Pansy said haughtily.

"I've been kidnapped before, you know," Ginny remarked softly, ignoring Pansy's insulting tone. "Only I didn't realise that's what was happening."

"I've heard all about it," Pansy cut in, "from Draco." She tried to sound bored, but Ginny sensed there was something else there, so she plunged forward, her plan forming.

"Have you?" Ginny asked in the same deadpan tone. "So Draco told you how his father slipped a diary into my books at the start of my first year, and how the diary bewitched me? How it made me kill the roosters? How Tom—" she stopped suddenly, wondering if she might be able to think of a better plan. The young students, who had not been at school when the Chamber of Secrets was opened again, moved forward to listen. They had no idea about the circumstances Ginny related, but listened rapt, as if to some captivating and exciting ghost story.

"Tom?" Pansy said, looking up. "Who's Tom?"

Suppressing a smile, Ginny moved to one edge of the bed, where she could talk to Pansy a little more privately. If it worked, it worked. "Tom Riddle," she explained. "He's—it was his diary, that Mr. Malfoy gave me. Tom's memories from Hogwarts were inside it. I thought it was a regular diary, at first, and I started writing in it. But then, it—Tom—began writing back." She paused for breath, noting that Pansy, too, had edged forward on her seat. "I was so excited at first. I mean, I was only a child—as young as this lot—" she gestured to the wizard and witches on the bed—"and Tom was so sympathetic. He told me he understood my homesickness, and my—my crushes, and things, and that if I kept talking to him, things would work out. It was really wonderful, having a boy I could talk to. Not like an older brother, but like a real friend. Do—" she looked up at Pansy confidentially, like a sister—"Do you and Draco ever just talk, like that? Like you can say anything and he'll listen and really understand?"

Pansy frowned. "No," she admitted after a moment.

"Well, Tom really listened, you know?" Ginny continued, pretending not to notice Pansy's dismay. "At least, at first. But then, things were happening—you know, with the Chamber of Secrets—and I had this horrible thought, like maybe it was me. I was afraid to tell anyone real, so I told Tom. Of course, it was silly to confide in him, but by then, Tom was sort of real to me, too." She paused again, waiting for a sign from Pansy to go on. Pansy chewed her lip a bit, but nodded and motioned encouragingly.

"I didn't know that Tom really was the problem, then. I just thought he was this wonderful person—I wanted him to be real. I wanted to help him. I wanted him to love me. I guess, if I'd thought about it then, I wouldn't have done all those horrible things. But I was so young, and—" she broke off again, aware that all five were hanging on her story at this point. She couldn't see David behind her, but she could hear him shifting forward to listen as intently as all the others.

"Anyway," she went on more strongly, "I tried to get rid of the diary, but it didn't work. When I got it back, Tom was angry, and I didn't know why. He made me write those messages on the walls. The last time I went down there, I don't know quite what happened. I took the diary with me, but I felt so weak. I wanted Tom to be there, to help me figure out what was happening. So, I called him out of the diary. But that's all I remember. I think he wanted me to call him. I think he wanted to leave and take on a real form again.

"I learned—later—that he wanted to kill Harry. I also found out that writing in the diary is what made him stronger. He used me, you see. Used my thoughts and feelings to make himself more real. He siphoned my own life into the spell that controlled his existence. He never really cared about me at all, except as a means to an end."

Ginny came to a stop in her narrative. Pansy remained silent for a long time. Afraid someone else might break Ginny's careful mood, she glanced at Katie and shook her head very slightly. Katie nodded and silently opened another chocolate frog for Jason and one for Stephanie.

"So…all those attacks that year," Pansy said slowly. "They were because you wanted Tom to like you?"

"Sort of," Ginny said, knowing it to be less than true, but hoping Pansy would draw the parallel on her own. "I kept writing to Tom because I wanted him to like me. He used that desire to make me do those awful things. Things I would never have done on my own."

"Hm." Pansy drew in a cleansing breath and stretched. She stood up and circled her chair, but said nothing. Then, she turned back and Ginny could feel the mood shift around her. "Well," Pansy commented in a controlled voice, "that Quidditch match should be over by now." She glanced archly over at David, who blanched.

"This is all about Quidditch?" He asked strangely. "Come on, even in American Football, they'd never stoop to kidnapping the quarterback."

"What in Merlin's name are you talking about?" Pansy shot back with rolled eyes. "Of course it's not about Quidditch. But it so happens that getting you out of the way significantly reduces Ravenclaw's chance of winning the match against Slytherin today."

"On the other hand, they'll know something's wrong," David countered. "I would never just miss a match. They'll know we're all missing."

"Well, they won't find you until we want them to do," Pansy shrugged. "This place is charmed within an inch of its life."

"Pansy," Ginny said softly. "Why are _you_ doing this?"

"The same reason the Chamber was opened. To get rid of the Mudbloods."

"That's why Draco's doing this. It is Draco's idea, isn't it? But why are _you_ doing this?"

Pansy's smug look fell. She turned away for a brief moment, but in that second, her resolve seemed to strengthen. She came around her chair again and sat. "No more talking," she announced, and just to be sure, she cast another lockjaw hex—as promised, on Ginny.

"I don't understand. Where is he?" Cho Chang asked her teammates as she changed into her Quidditch robes. "He didn't say anything about missing the match. And Slytherin! They're all that's standing between us and Gryffindor."

"Maybe he's sick," suggested Sally-Anne Perks, a chaser.

"He's not in the infirmary," replied Matthew Meakes, one of their beaters.

"It's not like him at all," Cho fretted. "Well, we're not forfeiting. I'll play keeper for David; just make sure that quaffle never gets near our goals," she instructed with a sheepish smile. They trooped onto the pitch.

It was a rout. Draco couldn't have been happier as their score climbed higher, pushing Slytherin closer and closer to the cup. Even the occasional Ravenclaw goal couldn't help them. When Draco saw the snitch finally, Slytherin was already up by sixty points. He feinted to the far side of the pitch, ignoring the snitch, but drawing the Ravenclaw seeker away from it as well.

"Kathy!" Cho called from her spot, hovering near the goalposts. "He's toying with you. Ignore him; just watch for the snitch!"

Draco snarled but didn't bother to worry about it. Without Rupaj to keep the goals cleared, Trent, Montague, and Warrington had little trouble racking up the points. And the longer the school's attention was focused on the match, the longer it would take for them to notice the other missing students.

Down in the stands, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville watched the match. "Where's Ginny?" Neville asked, looking around.

Hermione shrugged. "I haven't seen her since dinner. I expect she stayed up late doing homework and is still asleep."

They speculated also about where David Rupaj might be. Ron elbowed Harry annoyingly every time Cho took possession of the ball, until Harry had to insist that he wasn't interested in her anymore. That earned him an appraising look from Hermione, but she said nothing. Absently, she glanced at the crowd and noticed Ryan sitting across the way.

"Ron," she patted the redhead's arm and jerked her eyebrows across the stands to avoid pointing. "Look at Pelerand. He's in the crowd—if you look closely, you can imagine it's the same pose as the picture in the annual."

"Uh…Yeah," Ron agreed after looking for a moment. "Boy, he really looks like his ancestor, doesn't he?"

"Yes, but Ron," Hermione said, a slow look of triumph crossing her face. Just then, Goyle must have said something on Ryan's right, because he turned his head to answer. "That's it!" She yelled, too excited to stay in her seat. "I think I've got it! Ron, Harry, I think I've got it!"

"Hermione," Ron said, pulling her to the bench again. "Let's just make it completely obvious, shall we?"

"Come on," she insisted, standing again and gesturing for them to leave.

"What and miss the rest of the match?" Ron responded, incredulous. "Can't you wait until it's over?"

"No—I want to go to the library and check something. Ron, we've been so close to this for ages, and now, I think I know the missing piece. I think I know what he really is!"

"What are you talking about?" Neville asked bluntly. "Hermione?"

Hermione blushed a little and took her seat again. "That transfer student, Neville, the one in Slytherin—what do you think of him?"

"He's a ruddy good potions student, I can tell you. And he's not a bit afraid of Snape," Neville said without hesitating.

"He doesn't have to be," Ron cut in, but Hermione ignored him.

"But Neville, what if he's not really a student? Did you ever think maybe he's so good at his subjects because he's already passed them?"

Neville's face clouded. He considered Hermione's theory for a full minute before saying, "Well, I honestly never thought about it before. But if you say he's not a student, I'd believe you."

"Thanks, Neville. But it's not a question of believing me or not—it's getting the proof. Now Ron, Harry, aren't you going to come with me? If I'm right, we'll have him."

"Have him for what?" Harry asked slowly.

"I—" Hermione paused. "What do you mean?"

"You're so certain he's here to hurt me. Everyone's always sure that things are coming to get me. What if I'm not the target this time? If I were, why not be in Gryffindor?"

"Well, you can't fool the Sorting Hat, can you?" Hermione said after a moment. Harry frowned and lapsed into silence. "But we can't be sure unless I look something up."

"Right," Ron said, getting to his feet. "Naturally, that's the proper way to go about anything—look it up." He stretched and sighed. "Well, Harry? Look, it's all over here, mate. Ravenclaw can't hope to catch up. It's just a question of how soon Malfoy finds—"

Madame Hooch blew her whistle so shrilly, most of the students had to shake their heads to clear them. They could see Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore standing on the pitch below her.

"This match is to be concluded immediately," Professor McGonagall announced. "All students return to their common rooms at once. The heads of your houses will explain when you are assembled."

As they filed out, Hermione grumbling that she'd not be able to check her references now, everyone in three houses wondered what the problem could be.

On their side of the pitch, Ryan and Goyle used the noise to hold a surprisingly private conversation.

"So…you like to read everything from Mallory to Atwood to Sagan, but you still follow Draco around like a mastiff?" Ryan asked with a quizzical expression aimed at the boy.

Goyle shrugged his broad shoulders. "Look at me," he rejoined the other. "Do you really think anyone has much use for a literary critic who can crush rocks with his teeth?" He shook his head with an odd smile. "I'm trapped," he said without bitterness. "Between my father, Draco, and my size, what alternatives do I have?"

Ryan bit back his impulsive response, that a good mind could find application any number of ways. Before he could think of something less paternal to say, Goyle continued.

"Besides, I'm practically a Squib."

For that, Ryan had no comfort. But at that moment, Madame Hooch ended the match and ordered them all back to their common rooms. He would have to find a way to talk to Goyle more later—they hadn't even begun to talk about kidnapping Ginny Weasley yet.

"They've caught wind of it, somehow," Ryan said to Goyle as they made their way back to the castle. 

Sure enough, that was exactly the situation, though Ryan knew exactly how it had happened. His carefully planted information—with the exception of Ginny, whom he did not know about in time—had given the teachers all they needed to know. But in an effort to end the matter without direct intervention, the staff chose to ask first if anyone knew the whereabouts of David Rupaj, Katie Thomas, Stephanie Boot, or Jason Prill.

Ryan almost felt sorry for Snape. He was required to ask the Slytherin students to volunteer information if they had it, but equally obliged to ignore the missing students (Parkinson and Warrington) and his certainty that Draco was behind the whole thing, somehow. The man did a good job, however, of behaving as if he were only asking so he could tell Dumbledore later that he had done. His speech to them was full of double-edged comments, some of which almost made Ryan smile. "I feel it my duty to remind you all that if the students are found to have been held against their will, we will be forced to mete appropriate punishment," Snape informed them. 

He went on, striking a balance between dutiful professor and dedicated evildoer. He made it clear to the young Death Eaters that he had no interest in the incident beyond that required of him by the rest of the staff, while at the same time gave the Slytherins who weren't involved the impression that he obviously wished to find the missing students quickly and painlessly for everyone.

A collective sigh passed through the common room when he left, announcing that he would be in his office "if anyone wished to tell him something privately." The innocent Slytherins, casting doubtful looks at their housemates, left rather quickly.

Avery found his voice first. "It's past time to relieve the others. We'd better use the cloak from here. Who's on next?"

The moment Professor McGonagall left the Gryffindor tower, Hermione was off like a shot.

"Harry, Ron, come on! We've got to get to the library." She didn't even wait to see if they were coming, but crawled through the portrait hole and hurried down the hallway.

Rolling their eyes, they followed. But the library was closed. Mrs. Pince was nowhere to be seen. Confused—the library was never closed on a Saturday—the trio wandered back to the common room.

"And I _so_ wanted to see if my theory was correct," Hermione complained.

"I guess it's because all the staff are looking for the missing students," Ron surmised as they crawled back through the portrait hole. They glanced around the common room, took an empty couch just to one side of the fire, and settled in comfortably.

"Just what was it you thought you discovered?" Harry asked, curious despite himself.

"I realised it when he turned his head," Hermione explained quickly. "Looking at him across the pitch, it was about the same as the photograph in the annual." She could barely contain her excitement. "What was wrong about his ears, Ron?"

"They looked—big," the boy said with a shrug.

"Did they stick out all funny, like Ernie MacMillan's?" Harry asked with a giggle.

"No, they were—long, I guess," Ron said, closing his eyes to recall the photograph more clearly.

"What if they were pointed?" Hermione asked, a triumphant flare in her eyes. 

Ron and Harry both grinned back at her, wide-eyed with amazement. But it only lasted a moment before Ron burst her bubble.

"So?" He asked simply.

"Well, it's one more clue isn't it?" Hermione said. "We just need to figure out what human-like races have pointed ears, don't we?"

"What about pointed ears?" Asked Fred, looking up from his chess game with George.

"What races have pointed ears?" Hermione repeated.

"Races?" George echoed, then looked at the others in the room. "What races have pointed ears?" He asked loudly. Answers began flying.

"Cats."

"Dogs."

"Bears."

"Bears have round ears." Pavarti corrected them impatiently.

"No—races, not species," Hermione interjected with a twisted smile at the twins.

"Oh—Dwarves," said Lee Jordan.

"They do not. House-elves," Suggested Alicia Spinnet.

"Real elves," said Ron suddenly.

"Ron?" Hermione asked encouragingly.

"Real elves. I was just thinking about how you asked us what else he talked about, Hermione."

"What who talked about?" George asked with a frown.

"Pelerand." All three said together.

"That git—when did you talk to him?" Fred said hotly. "We told him to stay away from you lot—"

"Will you relax?" Ron said testily. "Back at the beginning of the year. Didn't Mum give you some job applications to fill out, over the holidays?" He went on in an effort to get rid of his brothers.

"Sure. But we threw them off the train as soon as we pulled out of the station," George answered.

"Ronniekins wants us to shove off," Fred pointed out jeeringly. The twins shrugged and went back to their game of chess. Ron made a gesture at their profiles.

"Go on, Ron," Hermione said.

"Well, you asked him about the house-elves, and he compared them to true elves." Ron's tone returned to normal as he focused back on the problem.

"What about true elves?" She asked.

"I dunno. Just that he said they weren't the same, remember?"

"Yes! Of course!" Hermione dug out her notes. "He said that they weren't real elves, more of a variety of fairy. But Ron, if he's an elf, would he be allowed to use a wand? Remember when Winky was accused of using a wand? Mr. Diggory mentioned a regulation against non-human wand use. I looked it up last year. The Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures passed laws forbidding non-humans to be licensed for wand use before World War I."

"Well, he doesn't have pointed ears, his ancestor did," Harry pointed out. "Maybe he's part Elf, like Fleur Delacour is part veela." Even a year later, Ron still went pink at the mention of the Beauxbatons student's name.

"You're probably right, Harry," Ron said. "Okay: he's part Elf. Mystery solved."

"Not exactly," Hermione said. "I have a plan, though, to find out if we're right. First, we'll hope they open the library tomorrow. I've got a lot of work to do."

Ginny worked on the guards one by one. She got no further with Pansy, as her lockjaw hex didn't wear off before Pansy's relief turned up, though she thought the girl looked considerably more contemplative when she left. At least they'd been allowed to go to the bathroom at the shift change, their guards taking them by turns to the lower floor of the little abandoned house. Ginny didn't know the new boy, but David did, apparently.

"Bridges," he said softly when the young man took his seat. "Look, can you at least let me have my arms back? They're really going to sleep," he commented dryly.

Bridges grimaced, but nodded curtly. He cast a leg-locker curse on David and then made the bonds around his torso disappear. 

For a moment, David looked like he was going to complain about the curse. He rolled his eyes at Ginny, who widened hers in a warning. "Better he thinks he's in control," she thought at David furiously, hoping he would understand somehow. "Better he thinks he's done something smart. It'll be easier to get him to talk that way."

Something in her face must have communicated with David, though, because he said nothing about his legs. "I can't move my arms, still," he said calmly to Bridges. "Would it be all right if one of the others helps me get some blood moving in them again?"

"Yeah, all right," Bridges acknowledged sourly. He assessed the other students. In what must have been their fourteenth or fifteenth hour of captivity, the younger ones were a little the worse for wear. Stephanie's eyes and nose were red from periodic crying, and Jason's stomach rumbled about every two minutes. Katie Thomas was very quiet, as if certain that if she dared open her mouth, their jailers would cast more curses on her. Bridges' gaze rested on Ginny. "You're the one from the family of Muggle-lovers," he observed. "You go help him."

Ginny nodded solemnly and scrambled off the bed, hiding a little flutter of hope. She knelt beside David, still leaned up against the shack's wooden walls, and picked up his right arm. It was still dead-weight, but blood had already begun to flow back into the sallow flesh, colouring it a dark olive. 

"It's all right," she said soothingly, unconsciously imitating her mother's ministrations when she or her brothers were sick. "We'll be all right," she promised.

"No talking," Bridges said sharply.

"Sorry," she said quickly, flashing him a sad smile. "Not another lockjaw hex," she thought to herself. Where were the teachers? Why weren't they doing anything?

By dinner that evening, Minerva McGonagall wanted to know just that. "We know they're in the Shrieking Shack, Albus," she told him crisply. "Why don't we just go and get them?"

"Because, Minerva," Albus answered, and he sounded very tired and sad, "we do not want to appear too well-informed. And we also want them to think their plan is going well. I've been in touch with Ryan—he assures me they are not being mistreated."

"Not being mistreated!" Professor McGonagall repeated incredulously. "I suppose he thinks nothing of being abducted, shoved into a dirt tunnel, and held hostage in an old shed? What have they got to eat? Have they enough blankets to stay warm? How many hexes and jinxes are being cast upon them?"

"Minerva, please, calm yourself," Dumbledore said, setting his hands on her shoulders. "They were unconscious when they went through the tunnel, and I'm told the students filled the place with blankets, pillows, and plenty of food. We won't let this last past the week-end. No harm will be done; the students will all return; all the Transfusion students will be punished; their parents will understand that we discovered their whereabouts easily—even Lucius Malfoy must know that will happen. Most importantly, they will not even get a chance to voice their demands, much less turn anyone over to the Death Eaters." He sighed heavily. "I can't single him out right now; it would be too dangerous," he continued, opening his cupboard and fetching a silver mirror out of it. "But we can communicate." He rubbed the glass three times and said "Jorian Jorianele."

The mirror shimmered and swirled, and an image appeared in the frame. Ryan stood outside on the edge of the forest, aiming a bow. He shot an arrow with a large, flat head. When he let his bow down, two figures passed in front of him. He stayed still for a few seconds. Then, as if talking to himself, he said, "If you're listening, that's the fourth shift going in. They'll be there until midnight. In a few seconds, the shift coming off will return, so I need to make this quick. There are lots of spells and charms on the tunnel and the shack, but nothing you can't break if you try. Actually, they've been pretty innovative about that. Nothing dark—I made sure they didn't use anything that might cause permanent harm. Anyway, they'll come out and we'll go back under the cloak—it's Harry's, by the way, you'll need to restore it to him. The rest of the operation will be asleep soon and only the people on shift change will need to come out. That would be a good time—catch them with the stolen cloak, leaving the grounds. I'll be caught as well, of course. Then you can open the tunnel, and get—" He stopped talking abruptly. A few seconds later, two others appeared in the little screen. They held out an invisibility cloak and all three disappeared under it.

Dumbledore wiped the mirror clean. "Midnight," he promised Minerva. "Only a few hours from now."

It was around six in the evening when they noticed Ginny was still nowhere to be found. 

"She'll turn up at supper," George assured his brothers on the way downstairs.

"Yeah," Ron agreed too brightly.

But she wasn't anywhere along the Gryffindor tables. "D'you reckon she's gone missing along with the others?" Ron asked Harry quietly.

"If so, why didn't the teachers know about it, and list her along with them?" Harry countered. "Ginny can take care of herself, Ron."

"I agree with Ron," Hermione said, and there was no disguising the worry in her tone. "This isn't like Ginny at all, and with four others missing, I don't think we should assume she's all right."

"Harry, we could look for her on the map," Ron said quickly.

Harry bit his lip, blushing slightly. "I never got it back from Moody—I mean, Crouch."

"Oh, no," Ron whined sympathetically. "Well, what say we pop the cloak on and have a look for her tonight?"

Harry worried his lips even more. He pushed his mashed potatoes round his plate, drawing them into rivulets with his fork. "Hamandbobble," he muttered, looking away.

"What?" Ron asked in confusion.

"I said I—hammeredgobbet," Harry repeated, staring at the Slytherin table.

"Harry, what are you trying to say?" Ron demanded.

"I haven't got it!" Harry admitted hotly. "I—lent it out, all right? I'll get it back soon—I hope," he added, still seeking to spare his embarrassment at what happened.

"Lent it out?" Ron repeated incredulously. "Lent it to who? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Whom," Hermione corrected him absently, but then leaned over to Harry and went on more gently, "Harry, did you give it to Ginny for some reason?"

"No." Harry's face felt hot and he was losing his appetite. He suddenly thought he knew why the Slytherin girls needed the cloak. "Look, I don't want to talk about it here, okay?" He entreated his friends, resigned that he would have to enlist their aid. "You finished, Ron?"

Ron pushed away his plate. "Yeah, all right. I want to hear this," he said, sounding strangely accusatory. The last time he'd acted this way was over Hermione and Viktor Krum.

The trio left the hall ahead of the other students. Harry took careful note of the Slytherin table as they passed it (to Malfoy's habitual jeering), and noted that there were several empty places. An uncomfortable theory forming in his brain, he led his friends to the nearest quiet alcove.

"Okay," he said, collecting his thoughts. "I was embarrassed to tell you this, but—here goes. You know Blaise Zabini, right?"

"Yeah, she's in our Potions class," Ron said.

"She's very quiet, though, not like most of the Slytherins," Hermione confirmed.

"Right. Well, she asked if I'd mind meeting a girlfriend of hers to practice Quidditch."

"You didn't go, did you?" Ron said quickly. "I mean, this friend was Slytherin, wasn't she?"

"Yeah, it was dumb, okay, Ron?" Harry said impatiently. "I thought I was doing something nice, that's all, and if Blaise was telling me the truth, it would really get Malfoy's goat." He waited to see if Ron would see his point.

"Okay," Ron conceded. "I'll give you that—Malfoy deserves to be taken down a peg or two."

"So…" Harry paused, thinking about how much he wanted to tell them. "Well, she wormed her way into getting me to show her the cloak. But when I turned up with it—"

"Hang on," Ron interrupted. "Wormed her way how?"

"Ron," Hermione warned. "Go on, Harry. When you showed up, there were a bunch of them?"

"Yeah," he nodded, grateful to the girl for understanding and helping him save face a little. Never mind that his assailants were all girls—Ron didn't need to know that. "Well, they ambushed me and took the cloak. But they said they'd give it back. I've been thinking of a way to make sure they do. But I think they stole it to hide under—"

"When they kidnapped the others!" Hermione crowed. "Harry, that's very good deductive work—your logic's getting much better."

"Who cares about his logic, Hermione?" Ron said impatiently. "So where do you think they all are?" 

"I dunno," Harry shrugged. "But they can't be too far."

"You can't Apparate or Disapparate," Hermione muttered to herself. "Do you think they know about any of the tunnels?"

"Yeah," Ron said quickly. "What if Wormtail told them?"

"Bet he did," Harry agreed. "So they could be anywhere," he said despondently.

"Not anywhere," Ron mused. "They won't be at Honeyduke's, because the shop-owners would find them. They won't be in the blocked tunnel. And Filch knows to search the others."

"That leaves—"

"The Shrieking Shack!" All three said at once. They shushed each other just as quickly, however, as they heard the rest of the student body leaving the Great Hall.

"Okay," Harry said after the lines of students had passed, coming to his senses first. "What do we do about it?"

"We could tell Professor McGonagall," Hermione suggested at once. "She said we should bring them anything we know."

"Yeah, but we don't have proof, do we?" Ron asked. "We could—no, we don't have the cloak…."

"Maybe we _should_ just tell a teacher," Harry suggested. "Just because it's never worked before…."

"Well, Lockhart was no help, that's for sure," Ron agreed. "I dunno; it seems wrong somehow…." They all thought about it for a moment, contemplating their other options. Finally Ron said, with great resignation, "All right, then, we'll tell McGonagall."

Nodding to one another, they went on their way to the Deputy Headmistress's office.

Ginny had had enough. She was tired and hungry and cross. The children weren't doing any better than she, but at least they had fallen asleep from exhaustion not long ago. She couldn't believe no one from the school had found them by now. Sitting by David in the now dark and gloomy shack, getting colder by the minute, she decided she had to do something. 

The new shift of guards made her worry for a minute, but then gave her increased hope. When Bridges' relief arrived, Ginny thought they were replacing him with two students, which would make things difficult. But then Malcolm Avery said, "Are you sure you want to do this by yourself?" And the other boy—the one who cursed her in the first place—Goyle, that was his name—told him not to worry, that it would be fine.

Avery left the room and Goyle settled into the chair with a sheepish smile at Ginny.

"Sorry about this," he said gruffly, "but it has to be done, you know?"

"Oh, has it?" David asked irritably.

Goyle scowled at the sixth-year. Ginny couldn't see his face well in the dwindling light, but it looked like he squared his jaw doggedly before pointing his wand and chanting, "_Petrificus Totalus_!" David's arms snapped to his sides. His torso straightened rigidly and he fell back against the wall, sliding down it.

"Hey!" Ginny reprimanded him despite herself. "That wasn't very nice at all. It was hardly nece—ooh…" She stood up, but stumbled from the sudden rush of blood that the change in pressure brought.

Goyle crossed the room in two quick strides and caught her before she fell. Strong as he was, he might have crushed her arms by grabbing them, but Ginny noticed his touch on her shoulders was light and gentle. "Sorry, Ginny," he said again, helping her to the bed.

"Why on earth are you doing this?" She asked plaintively. "You were the one who stupefied me, weren't you?"

"Yeah," Goyle nodded sadly.

"One of the others said something about how I wasn't supposed to be here—is that true?"

Goyle's throat suddenly went very dry. He couldn't form words, so he just nodded.

"Why would you do that?" Ginny asked, her eyes brimming despite her resolve to stay strong for the children. They were asleep, anyhow.

Goyle struggled with his answer. He seemed torn between saying it was necessary, as he had told David, and confessing that he didn't know why, or (as she suspected) that Draco made him do it. Before Ginny could help him make up his mind, however, he leaned over impulsively and took her head in one hand, lifted her face to his, and kissed her on the mouth.

Ginny's eyes widened at the sudden contact. Goyle's kiss wasn't unpleasant—in fact, it was sort of the way she thought a first kiss should be: soft and open, not too deep, and not demanding, certainly—but the circumstances were so extraordinary, she could barely fathom them. And she was far too cross with him to put up with any more nonsense. She reached up without thinking and pushed him away more fiercely than she really needed to do. Goyle broke apart so quickly he almost lost his balance, but he kept his back to her as he spoke.

"Yeah. Sorry," he said simply, and later, when Ginny thought back on it, she realised his voice was shaking just a little bit. "Look, I—don't know why—well, that's not true—I had a couple reasons, but—" Goyle kept talking, not looking at her, babbling his apologies and rationales.

Ginny, horrified at his advance still, paid no notice to what he was saying. She closed the distance between them, her focus on Goyle's wand hand. She reached out rapidly and snatched his wand away. Goyle was so embarrassed and absorbed in his stammering explanations still that it took a moment for him to realise what she had done. He turned and she glared at him, aiming the wand, but saying nothing.

Goyle shrugged. "What are you going to do?" He asked sullenly.

"What's your name, again?" Ginny asked with narrowed eyes.

"Goy—Gregory," Goyle said earnestly. 

"Well, Gregory, I think you should be very ashamed of yourself," Ginny scolded. "After all, there's a word for boys like you—and—and…" she trailed off, noting the abashed look on his face. "Look," she went on more sympathetically. "You just can't curse a girl like that, carry her off to heaven knows where, hold her against her will, and then expect her to feel grateful about it."

"I know," Goyle muttered in utter remorse. It was almost endearing. Ginny sputtered for a moment herself, put out that he had the nerve to look all big and cute when she was mad.

"So—it's not a question of what I'm going to do," Ginny concluded awkwardly, remembering she had a point. "It's what you're going to do."

"What do you mean?" Goyle asked. He supposed, in some dim corner of his thoughts, that he could attack her physically, but rejected the option as soon as it crossed his mind. "I don't want to hurt anyone, Ginny," he said, knowing how foolish he sounded.

"Well, I think you need to take a look around, Gregory," Ginny answered, feeling distinctly strange to be on the delivering end of one of her mother's lectures. "Because I don't see how you can think this isn't hurting us."

Goyle hung his head and said nothing.

"Now, if I give you back your wand, will you end the spell on David?" Ginny asked, when he didn't say anything.

Goyle grimaced across the room at the sixth-year Ravenclaw. Here was the tragic hero for Ginny, he thought bitterly. Quidditch captain, handsome, older, and decidedly more magical: almost—almost—worthy. Phoebus to his Quasimodo. He hoped it didn't work out like the book. At least from the look on David's face, he seemed more than ready to protect her honour. "Yeah," he said through dry lips and an aching throat. He held out his hand slowly, and Ginny placed the wand in it.

"_Finite Incantatem_," Goyle intoned, and David could move again. Before he could rise, though, Ginny held out a hand to stop him. She turned again to regard Goyle with a look that might have been content, or even pride.

"You've done the right thing, Gregory," she told him sweetly. She even took a step toward him, and he did not flinch as she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. But when she pulled away, she found the wand in her hand again. She barely felt him pass it to her.

"Go on, then," Goyle told her, his eyes looking very bright in the darkness of the shack.

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "_Stupefy_!"

Goyle dropped to his knees before her with a dull thud. Then he fell forward and his face slapped against the floor. 

David jumped to his feet and grabbed Ginny about the waist, hugging her fiercely. "That was brilliant!" He said, but quickly shushed himself as they heard footsteps approaching up the stairs.

"Give me the wand," he insisted, and Ginny surrendered it without argument.

Avery barrelled through the door, demanding to know what all the racket was, but before he made it two feet inside, David bound him and took his wand away. He handed the second wand to Ginny, who moved swiftly to the bedside to wake the younger ones.

"We should have a while before they change shifts," she said, slipping into immense practicality without pausing to think about it. "But I don't know if there are any other guards."

"I doubt it," David said. "They can't all go missing from school without someone noticing. The question is, where are we, and how far is it to get back?"

"My guess is, we're in the Shrieking Shack," Ginny said shortly. "Come on, Jason, wake up; there's a good boy, come along, now, we're leaving." She pulled the children out of the bed and had them gather up blankets for cloaks. Then she shooed them out of the room, down the rickety stairwell.

"Wait," David called with an incredulous, nervous laugh, "how do you figure it's the Shack?"

"Oh," Ginny said, glad he couldn't see her blush. "My brothers think I don't ever listen to anything they say or do. But between Fred, George, and Ron, and no little bit of conversation with Hermione—believe me, one learns enough secrets to last a lifetime." She glanced back at him as they descended the stairs, to see the white flash of his grin.

"Ginny, do any of your brothers tell you how remarkable you are?" He asked.

"No. Why, should they?" She shot back, aware of the little flutter in her chest. Was she flirting?

"Definitely, they should." He had to bend double to go through the tunnel, then, and they both fell silent from concentrating on the uneven ground.

The odd little group emerged from the Willow under a dark sky and heavy clouds. The ground by the roots was sheltered enough, but snow was falling steadily and silently, already an inch deep on the ground. They trooped up to the main entrance of the castle, found the doors unlocked, and carefully slipped inside. Katie wanted to go to her dorm at once to write her parents, but Ginny insisted that they had to get to a teacher before any Slytherins saw they were back. She naturally thought of Professor McGonagall, but wasn't sure exactly where her office was.

"I know," David said with a rueful expression. "I've been in it once or twice. It's this way."

They had talked a little more on the short walk from the edge of the Forbidden Forest to the castle doors, and Ginny felt all over a sort of lightness, as if she might break into silly giggling at any moment. She convinced herself it was a natural reaction to their escape, and had nothing to do with David.

"So—I think I understand why you were all kidnapped," she announced once they were above ground again.

"Sure," David said. "We're all Muggle-born, aren't we?" The three younger students nodded solemnly. "Bit obvious, isn't it?"

"Well—you play Quidditch, though," Ginny countered. "I wasn't sure if—"

"Nope. I'm just a sports addict," he said with a grin. "First thing I do when I get home after the term: turn on ESPN and binge on Muggle sports, catch up on everything I've missed. My Mum even tapes the really important games for me. My older brother says soon we'll have websites where we can look things up on the computer, so maybe I'll be able to replay all the matches I couldn't see because I was here."

"Um, I don't understand a word you just said," Ginny said, and they laughed. "But I bet my Dad would love to hear about it."

"What does he do?"

"My Dad's in the Ministry," Ginny told him proudly. "Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. He loves anything to do with Muggles. Collects plugs."

"Plugs?" David asked, and the other three giggled.

"Yes, and batteries. He's quite mad," Ginny agreed. They all laughed, and for the first time since escaping the little shack, their moods lightened considerably.

As they climbed the staircases to the Deputy Headmistress's office, Ginny smiled at David again.

"What?"

"Just thinking. You could explain to my Dad why keeping old batteries is pointless."

"Sure," David agreed, and took her hand.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were just leaving Professor McGonagall's office when the little band arrived.

"What do you suppose she meant, the teachers already knew where they were?" Ron asked.

"I guess they've got ways to tell," Harry shrugged. "Come on, let's—"

"Ginny!" They all shouted and began talking at once. Professor McGonagall came out to see what the noise was, and saw the five of them: wet, shivering, muddy, and tired.

"Good gracious!" She cried, swept all eight students into her office, and checked the five abductees carefully for hex marks or any signs of mistreatment. It was difficult, with all of them talking at once.

"Quiet!" The Professor bellowed finally. "Thank you." She continued in her usual prim way. "Well, you all look none the worse for wear," she admitted gratefully. "Ah, Harry; Hermione. Would you be so kind please as to get Madam Pomfrey, just to be sure?"

"All right, Professor," Harry said. He glanced at Hermione, who stood up hastily with a book in her hands, but who came over to him, an odd expression on her face. Professor McGonagall was pouring tea for the children and asking to be told what happened. Harry stared at Hermione, who put a finger to her mouth, and showed him the leather-bound cover. It read in gold lettering, "Hogwarts: 1859." Harry's eyes widened. With a final smile at Ginny, he took Hermione's hand and led her from the office. 

Snape burst in upon the Slytherin common room, angrier than Ryan had yet seen the man. He called for attention so abruptly that several students, including Draco, dropped their quills or books and didn't dare pick them up until he'd finished.

"No one is to leave the common room or tower without express permission until further notice," he announced without preamble. "Other than Mr. Prill, Mr. Goyle, and Mr. Avery, is anyone unaccounted for?"

They dared to glance around the room. Since the library was closed, and it was after eight o'clock, they were all there. The Prefects muttered something to confirm a full head count. "I expect you to make sure my instructions are followed," Snape growled at the Prefects. "Mr. Pelerand, you're first. Dumbledore's orders. Come with me," he snapped his fingers once and strode toward the door. It slid open at his approach. He paused in the threshold as Ryan got to his feet and made his way across the room.

Snape sealed the common room door with an immobility charm, made stronger by the force of his irritation. His anger didn't dissipate as they climbed the many levels of the castle to Dumbledore's office. Ryan felt the heat of the potions master's frustration as if it were a boiling cauldron. The description was apt, for no sooner had he thought of it than Snape's cauldron spilled over and out in a tumble of vilification.

"You stupid boys and your games! Do you think for one moment I shall stand for you to remain after this? Whose idea was it—Avery's? Draco's? I knew something was brewing at Christmas, but this?—Insanity! I told you, Pelerand, these things are not for children. You should have stayed away from it all."

Ryan considered telling Snape the truth. They were alone. He could enlist him as another ally—after all, Minnie—that is, Professor McGonagall, had proved trustworthy and valuable. He decided to chance it. He dropped his obnoxious adolescent attitude, stood straighter, even allowed his voice to deepen toward normal, and addressed the potions master. "Relax," he said calmly. "We're on the same side, Snape."

"_Professor_ Snape, Pelerand!" Snape rejoined him roughly. "Don't presume familiarity with me, boy."

Ryan sighed. But Snape wasn't finished.

"And I'll have none of your insubordinate cheek! I don't care what privileges you think you've gained from the Malfoy's, or signing Lucius's precious parchment, but you are still a student at this school, and I am still the head of your house, you impertinent idiot!"

Judging that Snape was in no mood to listen, Ryan bit his tongue and let the man rant. His mind wandered ahead to his report to Albus, and whether his information had helped, and not least of all, a nice, relaxing glass of Albus's always excellent brandy.

No one was as surprised or relieved as Ryan to find out that the students had escaped on their own. But Snape had threatened—practically promised—punishments for the guilty, and that was exactly what happened. Throughout the rest of the week-end, Dumbledore and McGonagall met with each of the hostages, then with Harry, Hermione, and Ron, and most of Slytherin house. Letters flew by owl that morning to many homes, and all the students who had stood guard—including Ryan, for his "involvement"—were set two or three detentions apiece, and suspended for a week depending on whether they had cursed any of the hostages or not. Dumbledore met with Snape and calmed him down, as well, but he was far from happy with his own house's performance, and on his own grudging recommendation, Slytherin was disqualified from the house championship that year.

Malfoy blamed Avery and Goyle almost exclusively, which wasn't hard to do since Avery was being suspended for the rest of the year, and Goyle, though he had managed somehow to avoid the same fate, was on detention every week-end until Easter. Rumours had it that he had named Transfusion members to escape suspension, but Ryan doubted this was true. Goyle was too loyal to turn informer, and besides, few other students were facing a similar doom. In any case, Draco maintained that if Goyle hadn't slipped up in some way, the plan would have worked, and none of them would have been identified. While Ryan felt sorry for Goyle, and determined to have a word with Dumbledore when he could about the boy's perceptive qualities, it at least took any possible suspicion off his shoulders. That evening, the Slytherins in the common room were sombre, but in an odd way, relieved that Operation Transfusion had come to an end.

Next day, in Care of Magical Creatures, which was indoors on account of the snow, Hermione raised her hand to ask Hagrid something in the middle of a lecture on manticores.

"Hagrid? How come we never study other magical beings?"

"Like whot, Hermione?" The oversized gamekeeper asked.

"Like house-elves, and centaurs, and true Elves, and Goblins and things?" She asked blithely. Ryan's face drained of colour, which fortunately wasn't too noticeable. He was sitting in the back.

Hagrid began to answer her several different times, each with a fresh perspective, but each time he started, he only managed a few words before he rearranged his thoughts. Finally he said, "Well, centaurs keep to themselves, pretty much, asked to be beasts instead of beings, and house-elves are a common sight in well-to-do wizard homes. Goblins is everywhere, don't hardly need to study 'em, leastways not outside History of Magic. And as fer Elves—" Ryan tensed slightly—"they don't mix with wizards anymore, so there's no need ter learn about 'em."

"Why don't they mix anymore, Hagrid?" Ron asked, now interested too. Ryan stifled a strangled sound, forcing himself not to answer.

"Well, about the turn of the century, so's I've heard it, the Elves was none too happy about the way things was going with Muggles. Didn't like the motorcars, nor the planes and all them Muggles were getting up to. They began 'anging back from even the wizarding folk. Then, when Grindlewald and his followers first cropped up, helping them Muggles in Europe to take over everywhere, he went about, asking fer the help of any magical creature he could find. The Ministry 'ere got worried that Elves and some of the others might join 'im. So they passed a bunch of laws, preventing the use of wands by non-humans. See, up until then, any intelligent creature with hands could potentially use a wand. They had to have a permit fer one, of course. But the Ministry decided to ban even that. And that, as I hear it, were the final straw for the Elves. Not the house-elves, of course—they never liked using wands anyway. But even though there weren't many Elves left, even then, the Ministry felt it would be better to be safe. So no goblin, dwarf, elf, nor giant, nor anything else, was permitted to perform magic using a wand. And from then on, the Elves packed up and left."

"Left for where?" Emma Naigle asked. Ryan studied the manticore in his Monster Book of Monsters very carefully.

"Dunno," Hagrid said with a shrug of his massive shoulders. "Reckon hardly anyone knows how to reach their enclaves. They live deep in the forests, see, but I couldn't say where exactly, nor how to get from our forests into theirs."

"So there's really an Elfland?" Seamus Finnegan asked. "I mean, we always heard stories about Herla, Thomas the Rhymer and so on, but d'you mean there really is a way to cross into the Fey realms?"

"Well…" Hagrid said. "I don't think they're precisely the same thing, Finnegan. Elves—least as I understand it—they're not the same as fairies, nor doxies, nor piskies, nor what you call the Sidhe. They're not the little folk, and they're far from leprechauns as you can get. They're older. I've heard tell that they come from another world, or maybe it's just that they have ways of getting the forests around them to be bigger than they look to Muggles."

"Like Hogwarts," Hermione said. "They must be unplottable, and be charmed so they're bigger inside than out, like the tents we used at the World Cup."

"Yeah," Ron and Harry both said, aware that they were actually agreeing with Hermione about Hogwarts, A History.

"But what if they weren't as gone as we think?" Hermione asked, and she turned in her seat to look straight at Ryan. "What if they have descendants who are part-Elf?" Her look of challenge burned as they locked eyes.

Hagrid chuckled, breaking the awkward moment. "No, Hermione," he said quickly. "They don't like to mix, I tell yer. Now, back to Manticores, right?"

Ryan breathed a sigh of relief. Granger was far too close to the truth, now. He would have to tell her soon, or she'd be sure to say just the wrong thing in front of Malfoy. It would upset the careful balance they had at the moment. Only that morning, Draco had sent a lengthy roll of parchment home to Malfoy Manor. Ryan was sure it contained a full report of the Event and everyone's reactions, including Snape's. He could not afford to appear in any way less committed to the Death Eaters now.

He watched Hermione leave the Great Hall for their afternoon classes ten minutes before the bell. She obviously wanted him to follow, since she paused to glare at Draco where the two of them sat on her way out.

"Pretty feeble attempt, Malfoy. Was that your best plan?" She called out, uncharacteristically provoking him.

"Go ahead and laugh, Granger," Draco retorted menacingly. "It's only a matter of time." He smiled at Ryan as if to gloat.

Ryan took the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Thanking Hermione for the chance, he stood.

"Where are you going?" Draco asked. With Goyle, Pansy, Avery, and the core of Transfusion on suspension that week, he had few of his regular cohorts.

"I'm going to have a word with that know-it-all Granger," Ryan said, picking up his bag.

"I'll come with you," Draco said, but Ryan clapped a hand on his shoulder to push him back into his chair.

"No—I'll do it. It's better you don't get into any more trouble right now, right?" Ryan told him with the air of doing him a favour.

"Well…just be sure you don't get caught, either," Draco conceded.

Ryan winked. "Don't worry," he assured him, and made his way out the door.

She was waiting near the stairs. "Who—" She began, but he immediately shushed her.

"Not here, Hermione, for the gods' sake," he hissed. He drew her across the entrance hall and into the little anteroom where the first-years received their welcoming speech each year. She protested quietly, drawing her wand. "Damn it, Hermione, I'm not going to hex you!" He applied more force to her arm and shut the door behind them. "Now, did you want to ask me something?"

"You're an Elf," she said breathlessly, rubbing her arm where he'd squeezed it.

"That's not a question." Ryan smirked, nodding. "I'm surprised it took you this long. You've been suspecting me for a while, now. How did you figure it out?"

"I didn't—not until this morning. At first I thought you may be part Elf, but then I found this in the library." She dug into her bag and held out an old book with a cracked spine. Ryan read the title: The Disappearing Glade, by Galatea Gimlet. Hermione continued: "I looked up your name a long time ago in Who's Who. The entry mentioned the Seven Houses, but of course I didn't know what that was. But there were so many little hints—the falcon, the way you talked about Slytherin and Gryffindor—that way you caught the fish, even—I knew something just wasn't right."

"And what convinced you? I know Albus's answer to your friend's questions didn't even stop you."

Hermione blushed. "You knew about Snuf—"

"Albus told me. He told you the truth, too, Hermione."

"Yes. I know that now."

"Why?"

"Because…you were in Gryffindor, weren't you?"

"Yes," Ryan said with a reflexive half-bow. "I thought you'd cottoned on to that when you asked about the annuals."

"Well, I saw that there were Pelerands in the House—actually, the house-elf, Dobby, he told me that—"

"No stone unturned!" Ryan laughed gently.

"—But someone had taken all the annuals out of the library."

"Yes, I remember, you asked me about it."

"Well, they missed one—1859."

"The year I graduated," Ryan observed. "Yes. I realised too late after talking to you that I shouldn't have mentioned the photos. I assume Albus took them?"

"No," Hermione said. "I found it again, yesterday," she explained, pulling it out of her bag as well. "It was in Professor McGonagall's office. You see, I never noticed, when we were in the library over Christmas, that Professor McGonagall was there as well. We left the book for a few minutes, and when we came back, it was gone. I asked her about you when I talked with her yesterday, about the kidnappings. She didn't want to tell me, but I could sense something more than she would say. I insisted that you were a Death Eater, but I told her my theory—that you were part Elf. But that still didn't explain everything, because you knew too much. You weren't an ordinary student, sorry." She smiled apologetically.

"That's all right; you seem to be the only one not fooled. I'd say that's what's extraordinary here."

She flushed pink again. "Anyway," she stammered, continuing with her cold recitation of facts, "once I had that, I knew what to look for in the library. You see, I was looking for wizarding families named Pelerand."

"And we're not classified as wizards."

"Right. But between the book and the annual, I knew—you're a friend of Professor Dumbledore's." She favoured him with a triumphant look. "But what I don't understand is, why didn't you stop the Slytherins?"

"Because that's why I'm here, Hermione. To find out about them. I can't do that unless I'm one of them."

"Do you mean—" her eyes grew wide and she covered her gasp with her hand. "You don't have a dark mark, do you?"

"No," Ryan assured her. "And I may not need one, but—well, there are larger things at stake than you know, Hermione. Please, just keep it to yourself, all right?"

"What about Harry and Ron?"

"I'd prefer you didn't say, but I suppose you've kept enough secrets between the three of you…." He shrugged, sighing artfully in defeat. "Tell them if you must. It's just imperative that no one in Slytherin finds out—who knows what their parents might do? Now, mind if I ask you a question?"

Hermione shrugged. "Go ahead." He ran his eyes up and down her robes before he locked them onto her own. Hermione could feel the colour rising in her throat and cheeks. For a moment, she feared he would kneel and propose, so intense was his scrutiny. But then he spoke, and it was as penetrating as any question her professors had ever posed.

"Hermione," Ryan said, holding her gaze with his eyes intently, "why aren't you a prefect?"

The girl turned even redder still, and seemed, for once, completely at a loss for words. "Oh, well…" she stammered. "You know, it's so much extra work, and—"

"Not buying, Hermione," Ryan said quietly. "What's the real reason?"

"Well," she said, sighing, "Harry has to break so many rules sometimes—if I were a prefect—"

"As I understand it, Harry's own father was Head Boy, and it didn't stop him from breaking all kinds of rules. Why aren't you a prefect? A girl like you should have jumped at the accomplishment."

The young woman sighed again, long and deep. "Promise not to laugh?" She asked. Ryan nodded solemnly, feeling his age. "I—I _am_ a prefect. I just don't wear my badge. I worried that Ron wouldn't like me if I took it, so I don't let on."

"What about your meetings? Your other duties?"

"He thinks I go to a study group with Ravenclaw," Hermione answered. "So does Harry."

It was Ryan's turn to sigh. After months of maintaining his teenage persona, he had suddenly become father confessor to two students in just three days. "Well, if you'll permit me to say it, Hermione—and I know, you probably won't listen—but if he balks at a little thing like you being a prefect, what good is he?"

The girl said nothing, studying her shoes. Ryan told himself to butt out, but out of concerned, morbid interest, he pressed instead. "Hermione? Are you and Ron…."

"No," Hermione said quickly. "We all agreed—it's just too strange to think about dating either him or Harry," she said. "But Ron's so sensitive. I just didn't want to put yet another wedge between us as friends."

"It's your life," Ryan said with a shrug. "Personally, I'd have a talk with him. But that's the voice of experience, which you are more than free to scorn." He smiled, making no effort to hide either his humour or his considerable charm. The bell rang outside. "That's class," he said quickly. "Do me a favour and act like I've done something awful on your way out, will you? In case anyone sees?"

"Okay," Hermione said amiably, letting him leave first.

With so many Slytherins suspended or on multiple detentions, classes were smaller than normal for a while, and the common room seemed almost empty by comparison. Ryan and Draco, who had managed to avoid all but one detention, sat at one of the tables working on essays for Transfiguration (Ryan's was full of information for Albus) when Pansy and Goyle returned from their cleaning detail. They were laughing, and Pansy—well, Pansy glowed. 

"What are you two so happy about?" Draco asked, sounding irritated. They wiped the smiles off their faces in exchange for slight looks of embarrassment.

"Gregory was just telling me about wizards in the High Gothic era," Pansy said.

"Oh?" Draco said slowly. "Is that true, Gregory?" On the boy's name, he raised his pitch and adopted a girlish, mocking tone, batting his eyes in a crass imitation of Pansy.

"Yeah," Goyle said, with a wink at Ryan. "Courtly love, chivalry and a lady's honour, all that. Valentine's Day, you know."

"Whoever are you going to give a Valentine, Goyle?" Draco asked dismissively. Goyle blushed hard and stammered a bit. 

"Don't pay any notice, Gregory," Pansy said archly. "Just because some of us think we're better than others. I think your poem's a fine idea." She threw daggers at Draco with her eyes and raised her chin even higher. "In fact, I think more people round here could find better ways to show how they feel." She flounced out to the girls' tower, her none-too-subtle hint hanging in the air between them all.

"Well!" Draco scoffed after she left. "What does she think I'm supposed to do about that?" He asked, scratching his quill along his parchment to write.

"Go after her," both Ryan and Goyle said at once.

"Are you mad?" Draco retorted with disgust. "If she thinks I'll be at her beck and call, she's dead wrong, right? Anyway, I've got real work to do."

Goyle shrugged at Ryan, and Ryan shrugged at Goyle. With a noncommittal mutter, Goyle trudged up the tower stairs to their dorm.

"Whose side are you on, anyway?" Draco asked Ryan in a sullen complaint.

"Hey, she's your girlfriend," Ryan said quickly. "I'm just watching your back, mate."

Draco growled incoherently, focusing on his essay. "We need to start practising for the O.W.L.'s," he announced a minute later. Ryan nodded and let him redirect the subject of conversation.

Valentine's Day took the school rather like a fever. It seemed the students wanted nothing more than to forget the tension of Operation Transfusion with a happy, lovesick profusion of goodwill. Dumbledore, fearing that Snape might crack under this additional strain, made certain that no "arrangements" were made even closely resembling Lockhart's disastrous attempts during his only year as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. The hall looked no different from normal. But that did not stop the students from exchanging cards and gifts all day, starting at breakfast.

Goyle screwed up his courage and walked across the Great Hall to the Gryffindor tables. Ignoring the jeers and mocks as he sidled up to where Ginny sat with some friends, he cleared his throat politely.

"Leave off, you!" Ron called from a table away. He rose and came down to stand across from the brutish boy. Fred and George also stood to see the trouble. "You leave my sister alone—" 

"Ron, it's okay," Ginny said gently, putting a staying hand on his arm. "Hullo, Gregory," she said with a pleasant smile. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Happy…you too. Uh…Ginny, could I—oh, here," he said, feeling flustered, the carefully prepared speech dying as he looked into her eyes. Deep brown eyes, and red hair. His stomach sank. He thrust a piece of parchment into her hands and forced his way through the narrow gap between the tables as quickly as he could. He didn't stop when he reached the end, but rushed out of the room.

Over at the Slytherin table, Emma and Pansy sat beside Draco and Ryan.

"Aren't you going to give us anything?" Emma asked Ryan.

"No, Emma," Ryan answered callously.

"What in blazes—oh, no!" Draco cried in dismay. "That moron! Crabbe," he backhanded Crabbe's arm to point out Goyle's destination. "Did you know Goyle was a Muggle sympathiser?"

"Ummm… No," Crabbe said firmly, and went back to his sausages.

"Well, don't look now, but I'd say he's declaring his loyalty."

"He's talking to the Weasley girl," Ryan pointed out. "Isn't she a pureblood?"

"A pureblood from a family of dirt-poor Muggle-lovers," Draco sneered. "It's hardly a proud pedigree, is it?"

Crabbe stood abruptly. "Where are you going?" Draco asked. 

"I'll handle this," Crabbe said confidently, and he stalked his former comrade on the way out of the hall.

"Want to go watch?" Draco suggested to Ryan.

Ryan pretended to consider. "Nah. Why bother? They'll just get detention for fighting, and then we'll get detention for watching. Besides, when do you want to start revising?"

But then Ginny herself stood up and followed Goyle, and that was too interesting for Draco.

They spotted the two in the middle of the dungeons. Goyle slumped against the wall, holding his stomach, and had a marvellous black eye starting. Ginny stood over him with concern. Crabbe was nowhere in sight. Draco signalled to Ryan and hid behind a brazier. Ryan took up a position by the column on the other side of the corridor. The echoing conversation drifted over to them.

"I told him I didn't want to fight," Goyle said with a little cough. "Vincent always wants to solve things with his fists."

"Are you all right?" Ginny asked him. She helped him to stand.

"Oh, I'm fine. When you're as big as I am, it takes a lot to knock you down."

"He _is_ rather a lot."

"Yeah." An awkward silence fell. Draco snickered, but Ryan waved him to quiet.

"So—look, I—" Goyle began.

"I wanted to tell you—" Ginny countered. They smiled. 

"It's not important, if you don't like it," Goyle said apologetically.

"No—I do, it's really good."

"It's Tennyson," Goyle said. At that moment, Ryan heard movement approaching behind them. He turned to see Pansy and Emma closing in, but he held out a hand and motioned them to stay back. They didn't comply, but crept along the corridor until they stood next to the boys.

"I know. I mean—it's sweet, Gregory, really. But…."

Gregory sighed. "I know," he said in the same defeated tone from the shack.

"I mean—you kidnapped me!"

"I know."

"And I jinxed you with your own wand."

Goyle looked up. With one eye swelling shut, he looked more like the bell-ringer of Notre Dame than Ryan cared to admit. "Well…you were really nice about it, though," he said as if to mitigate her action.

"I really didn't want to…."

"No. It worked out better that way. Believe me."

"Well. Look, I appreciate the thought, Gregory, I really do." She stopped, letting her words hang unspoken.

"But you've started dating that Mud—that Ravenclaw," Goyle surmised.

"Um. Yes," Ginny nodded. "I'm really sorry," she told him, in the same tone she'd used in the shack as well. 

"Yeah. No big deal," he told her with a faint smile. Another silence stretched.

"Thanks for the poem, though," Ginny said at last. She retreated into a side corridor to take a short-cut to her first class.

Draco started to laugh, but to his great surprise, Pansy slapped him before his giggles even reached their peak. Draco watched in stunned silence as she walked past him and held out her arms to Goyle.

"Oh, Greg," she said, fluttering to his side. "That was so brave of you!"

"Think so?" Goyle said with a sad grin.

"Know so," Pansy said. "I'm sorry we overheard—"

"It's okay," he answered weakly. "I'm just going to fall down now, all right?" He asked, and slid back down the wall to pass out.

The next morning, the falcon reappeared among the owls with a small parcel, which it dropped in front of Ryan. The bird landed next to the parcel and keened once.

"Thanks," Ryan told her, and crumbled his toast for a reward.

Around him, the effects of Valentine's Day could still be plainly seen in the hall. Pansy and Greg sat together, emitting a bright aura of romance. Draco made a few comments about Goyle's dubious worth as a boyfriend, but also said privately to Ryan that it was just as well to get rid of Pansy. Emma watched Draco closely, as did Felicia, Blaise, and several others from what remained of Transfusion. Ryan wondered how long it would take one of them to pounce, and whom it would be. 

Ignoring any other continuing fallout from the holiday, he opened the package. There were several feathers inside, from various kinds of birds, and a hood and jesses with bells attached, all of finely dyed leather in a deep shade of purple. A folded and sealed parchment lay among the small treasure, scented lightly in Maloriel's comforting musk. Ryan put the feathers and the falcon's accessories in his bag before opening the note. Maloriel's neat, fine handwriting filled the sheaf of parchment in their native language: long rows of graceful runes more ancient than any studied at Hogwarts anymore. He read:

__

Beloved—

Received your last letter with great amusement. I do feel sorry for Narcissa, from your description, though I doubt it was your intention that my sympathy lie with her in your stead. Uncomfortable though you must have been, I'm certain that you were tactful as always. Rest assured I should understand that whatever you did or did not do, you felt necessary to your mission. I should have been quite intrigued to see it, however.

Here at home, there have been the usual speculations as to your absence from Court. Your esteemed grandfather deflects all questions by merely saying you attend to family affairs Outside. By this, most of the Court understands you are abroad, though not the nature of the business, which is cause for endless gossip. They presume that I know your whereabouts, of course, and ask casual questions. Perhaps, they wish to know, you are at the Pelerand estates in Gävle? I smile and look mysterious, saying only that when you left, you may have mentioned stopping there. After all, they need something to talk about, do they not?

Before I forget, my love, I have a message for you from Zorle. He wishes me to tell you—let me make sure I get this right—that "on the second night that shines as day, the Hunter shall run with the Hounds." He also said something about the Pleiades being on the rise, but I couldn't pin him down further than that. You know centaurs. Anyway, I hope it makes more sense to you than it did to me.

Just in case, Reina will stay with you so you can send your signal if necessary. She was most distressed by how long it seemed to take the school owl to arrive with your letter, and insists that she can reach us more swiftly than any owl. Her jesses and hood are enclosed accordingly. Keep them with you so you can summon her should you have need.

Ryan looked up at the peregrine, who was still sitting on the table pecking daintily at a kipper. Draco was reading a letter of his own, his owl gone already. "So you are to stay with me, little one?" He murmured soothingly. The falcon paused in her breakfast and looked up. She keened shrilly and bobbed her head once in a dignified affirmative. "All right," he told her. "Go and make yourself comfortable in the owlery." The falcon cocked her head at Ryan and spread her wings in majesty. Then in a gesture of defiance, she scooped up the kipper in her beak before taking to flight and swooping out of the Great Hall. Chuckling, Ryan returned to the letter.

__

I am also enclosing some feathers for new quills, and a few good ones for fletching, if you have time. How do you like the new bow? It's a little springy for my taste, but I was quite happy with the way the curve came out. Has the wrapping held on the grip? I only had a bit of the leather you like, so I couldn't make as good a shelf as I wished, but I wanted to get it to you in case you needed it. 

Listen to me. There you are in "Merry Olde England," and I ask you to play Robin Hood to report on my handiwork. Well, did you expect any different? I don't like to think of you alone with all those Humans, with only your dagger most of the time—or do you eschew even that, now that your friend keeps your sword for you?

Reina is anxious to be underway. I shall indulge her and content myself that you know how I miss you, and how I worry for you. Of course, I know you are careful and avoid unnecessary risks, but one never knows what to expect Outside.

Be well, be safe, and come home when you can to 

Your waiting

Maloriel

He smiled and pocketed the letter, returning to his breakfast. He had only eaten a few more morsels when the bell rang and students all around him rushed to their classes.

As they filed through the entrance hall, Draco caught his attention.

"Father's given me some names, here. Children of families he thinks are sympathetic, even if they're not in Slytherin. We're to casually make contact."

"I see," Ryan said. "Where'd he get the names?"

"He doesn't say," Draco said, sounding disappointed. "Anyway, just because we got caught doesn't mean we'll stop meeting. We're just going to have to be more careful," he told him conspiratorially.

"Of course," Ryan answered with a matter-of-fact shrug. "We can't give up after just one attempt," he added.

Draco smiled coldly, looking more like Lucius all the time. "That's what Father says," he responded, voice full of admiration. "He also says we're to come back for the Easter holidays. There's going to be another meeting." They slid into their seats and pulled out their books. Just before the lecture began, Draco leaned over to Ryan and continued, "I think he means to initiate us for real. Wouldn't it be amazing if He were there? If we got to meet Him for real?"

There was no mistaking whom Draco meant. It was only through years of training in duplicity that Ryan managed to echo the aristocratic young man's enthusiasm. "Sounds exciting," he said, grateful that at that moment, Professor DuBois clamoured for their attention.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione watched Ginny and David walk hand in hand up the staircase to their separate classes. David dropped Ginny off after each meal, now, and had done for the last week.

"It's so nice to see Ginny with someone like David," Hermione said, with no attempt to disguise the dreamy tone in her voice. They paused in the entrance hall to talk before separating for their own classes—Ron and Harry to Divination, Hermione to Ancient Runes.

"Hmph," said Ron. Despite Fred and George's provisional approval of the relationship, Ron remained strangely suspicious. "He's too old for Ginny," he insisted with a sidelong glance at Harry.

"He's younger than your brothers," Harry pointed out, though whether he deliberately misinterpreted Ron's look or truly didn't care, Hermione could not tell.

"He's…."

"Ron, so help me, if you say Muggle-born," Hermione warned.

"No, no, not that. He's such a…Quidditch jock," he finished feebly.

"So? You could be called a Quidditch jock yourself, now that you're on the house team," Harry teased.

"Well. I don't know whether Mum will fancy family dinners with vindaloo and curry and all," he protested.

"Your mum won't care about any of that," Harry said firmly, "as long as he makes Ginny happy."

"Yeah," Ron acknowledged grudgingly. "And if he doesn't, he knows there will be six of us coming to find him."

"Oh?" Hermione countered quickly. "If you ask me, if he messes this up, Ginny will take care of him herself long before any of you get there." She snorted. "You know, sometimes none of you give her enough credit. She's had all of you to protect her all her life, Ron, but she can look after herself perfectly well. Your trouble is, you never notice, even when it's right in front of you." She blushed suddenly, hotly, and cut herself off.

"What are you on about?" Ron asked.

Hermione set down her bag to begin rummaging through it. "Well, there's something I've been meaning to tell you…" she began to explain as she fished around for her badge. But just then the entrance hall door opened, and a familiar figure in a faded and shabby cloak entered. He was thin, of average height, and had sandy hair that was going grey here and there. The robes underneath the cloak were grey and patched here and there. He carried a battered suitcase tied neatly together with string.

"Professor Lupin!" Harry and Ron exclaimed, to be joined by Hermione a second later.

"Hullo!" Professor Lupin greeted them warmly. "I'm not a professor anymore, though. And I don't want to draw a lot of attention," he cautioned them as they came forward to shake his hand. "But it is very good to see you lot. How have you all been?"

As they assured the former professor that they were well and enjoying their year, though they were crammed with work, Hermione screwed up her courage. She held out her badge to him and looking straight at Ron, said, "I've been made a prefect, Mr. Lupin."

Ron's jaw dropped. A second later, he was grinning from ear to ear. "Hermione! Why didn't you tell us? We could've been using the prefect's bathroom all year."

"It's not that spectacular," Harry told him with a playful punch in the arm.

"That's wonderful, Hermione! But now, hadn't you all better be in class?" Lupin asked them, with the air of the teacher about him as if he'd never left.

"Oh—yeah." Harry said. Divination couldn't have been further from his mind.

Hermione excused herself quickly and took a different staircase to her class. The others climbed the main staircase to the second floor.

"Are you staying, Pro—Mr. Lupin?" Harry asked eagerly. 

"For a few days, possibly. I'll be keeping a rather low profile, though. Wouldn't want the students to write their parents," he said with a self-deprecating smile. "I'll find you to catch up, never fear," he promised, resuming his usual shy but reassuring manner. He shooed the boys on their way upstairs before going down the corridor that would take him to Albus Dumbledore's office.

A/N: Congratulations, you've all got your wish! Well, some of you, anyway. Now, don't go thinking I acquiesced to your demands and pleas; Hermione was always going to make the connection, she just needed the right set of facts. As for the outcome of teen angst….well, nothing's written in stone, right? I'm just so happy that Remus finally decided to stop being shy. I've been trying to get him to say hello for just weeks, now. 

Thanks to everyone who is reading and especially those who are reviewing, and even to those who wrote to ask: "When's the next chapter coming out?" Well, here it is, thanks to my bestest for her tireless editing. No big cliffhanger, no nail biting required. I'm not making any promises about the next chapter, because life is picking up speed, but we're getting close to the climax, so hang in there. In the meantime, go read "Surfeit of Curses" by Heidi Tandy. Also, check out "Full Moon Rising," plus two companion pieces: "Catharsis," and its sequel, "Fallout," by A'jes Blue. And if you're old enough, also read "Unlikely Heroes" by Khirsah.

Now, discuss: What did the centaur mean? Why is Professor Lupin here? Now that Hermione's (finally) figured it out, who else will put it together? Will Ron and Hermione ever sit down and clear the air? Will David Rupaj teach Mrs. Weasley his family recipe for Chicken Moghlai and tell Mr. Weasley all about cable telly? Will we ever meet Maloriel? Don'tcha just love Ginny? Are there really students in houses other than Slytherin who sympathise with the pureblood stance? And why haven't there been any flashbacks for a while? The answers to some of these questions, next episode!


	10. Restoration

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretences __

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretences. As a Slytherin, he befriended Draco Malfoy to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, Operation Transfusion's Event ended practically before it began, owing largely to the efforts of Ginny Weasley. Her actions, however, were not without repercussions. And a former professor made a brief appearance….

"Professor Lupin!" Harry, Ron, and Hermione called cheerily.

The grey-robed figure ahead of them turned. "Hullo," he called back. "I'm just heading down to tea with Hagrid. Would you like to come as well?"

The three students grinned. "We're on our way there, ourselves," Harry explained as they caught up. 

It was a bright Saturday for mid-February, the air crisp and the sun shining, promising spring soon. "You'll be leaving shortly, won't you, Professor?" Hermione asked after a moment.

"Yes," the slight man answered with a sigh. "And you don't have to call me Professor anymore," he added with a tired smile.

"But why so soon?" Harry demanded to know.

"Tonight is the dark of the moon, Harry. It's the safest time for me to be here. I must be off again before it begins to wax. It wouldn't do for me to stay and endanger everyone." As always, Remus Lupin spoke in a carefully modulated, controlled tone, but there was no mistaking either the sadness or the hint of bitterness in his comment. 

The three teens allowed him a moment of reflection, but their curiosity and his natural good humour kept them from extending it longer. Ron changed the subject a bit as they trudged through the thin layer of snow.

"Does Dumbledore have you on a mission, P—Mr. Lupin?" He asked eagerly.

The older man laughed lightly. "Well, I came to report in. We've been discussing my next task, but haven't made any decisions yet."

"Have you seen Sirius?" Harry asked.

"Yes, though not recently," Lupin told them. "We do…correspond quite a bit," he continued in a milder tone. The hint of a smile played over his lips, but he said nothing more.

They reached the hut and Hagrid threw open the door to welcome them. The tea was warm and inviting after the brisk wind outside.

"I understand from the Headmaster that you took a bit of holiday last summer, Hagrid?" Lupin asked lightly as they stirred their tea.

"Yeah," Hagrid replied, his black eyes sweeping over the teenagers. "Reckoned I'd see some wild country," he said. "Worked out pretty well," he said with a pointed nod at the other man.

"Excellent," Lupin smiled.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had already heard about Hagrid's summer, though. "What have you been doing all this time, Mr. Lupin?" Hermione prodded innocently.

Lupin's eyes clouded for a moment, but the spark returned so quickly, Harry wasn't certain they had ever changed. "I'm sure you realize that the Headmaster has asked us all to begin…laying the groundwork, as it were."

"Do you think it will start soon?" Harry asked quietly, calmly. A pall fell over the hut. Even Fang, Hagrid's boar hound, seemed to want some reassurance. He nudged Hagrid's leg with a whine. Hagrid reached down and absently scratched the enormous beast under his muzzle.

"Yes," Lupin said with the same uncanny factuality. "I think it will start very soon. He's clearly not going to move until he feels everything is in place."

Whether Lupin meant Dumbledore, or Voldemort, they were not certain, but either way, it meant that when the storm did break, it would be a deluge.

Hagrid changed the mood abruptly by offering more tea and some oatcakes he had baked. They all accepted the tea, but the oatcakes looked suspiciously like chipped gravel, so they politely declined them. 

"Quite right, Hagrid," Lupin said with somewhat forced brightness. "No sense worrying about it now, not when it's such a beautiful day. Now, you three, tell me what you've been up to."

"It's too nice out to revise," Draco said for about the eighth time that day. "Let's go out and you can teach me to shoot that bow," he requested conspiratorially.

"No." Ryan insisted again. "It's too cold. Besides, I've lost the sword—I'm not losing that, too," he said, letting his voice sound sulky. "Try the balancing charm again."

Privately, he agreed with Draco. He'd much rather be out shooting or walking in the sunlight, but since the kidnapping, Slytherins were under close surveillance. As a result, most spent their free time in the common room, the library, or their dormitories. Today, for a miracle, Ryan and Draco were practically alone in the common room.

Draco performed the charm in a hurry. Given the rush job, he actually did it fairly well. Still, Ryan felt certain that by the O.W.L. standards of the 1850's, Draco would never have gotten full marks for the last three books he added to the stack. They were stacked end-to-end vertically, so that the spine of each book rested just inside the top of the spine below it. From a huge tome some 4,000 pages wide, to a tiny book of hours barely an inch across, the stack extended from floor to ceiling. But Draco had set down the topmost three without nesting them properly. He repositioned them after contact. In Ryan's schooldays, the teachers would have taken off marks.

"This is boring," Draco announced. With a flick of his wand, he muttered the counterspell and sent the books flying into the corner. "Come on. I don't see why we have to worry about O.W.L.s anyway. There won't be much of a school left when He's done with the place."

In the last day or two, since Lucius's letter about the Easter holidays, Draco's assertions about the Dark Lord had made regular appearances in his conversation. Ryan could have appreciated it better had he felt that any of Draco's predictions approached the truth. The only thing that worried him was whether the boy's initial guess was right: that Voldemort would be present at Malfoy Manor and that they were meant to be initiated "for real." Not quite a month ago, he'd told Hermione he might not need to get a Dark Mark on his arm. He hoped he was still right.

Draco paced the common room restlessly. Then in a sudden burst of teen energy, he went bounding up the stairs. He returned a few minutes later with a silvery, shining, almost fluid length of cloth.

"Harry's cloak!" Ryan said in genuine surprise. "You still have it?" He asked. He thought he'd made it clear to Albus that the cloak should be returned.

Draco regarded him cock-eyed for a moment. "It was Potter's, yes," he said in an odd tone, as if uncertain why it needed explaining. "But who's to say it hasn't been ours, all along?" The way he said, "Potter," with a tiny stress on the word, betrayed not only his hatred for the boy, but made it clear he'd caught Ryan referring to him by name. He studied Ryan through slitted eyes. "Not going soft, are you?" He asked after a long moment.

Ryan scoffed. "No, of course not. Only Felicia—"

"Well, Felicia doesn't have it, does she? We do. Now are you coming or not?"

"Where are you going?" Ryan asked with a shrug.

"For a walk. I can at least get some fresh air without some bloody teacher wondering what I'm doing, can't I?" Though his drawl made his every statement sound slightly disdainful, Ryan heard the clear undertones of typical teen-aged growing pangs.

"Go on, then," the spy told the young warlock. "I've still got revising to do."

Draco sniffed haughtily. For a moment, Ryan thought he was about to be treated to another lecture on how Voldemort would squash Hogwarts into rubble, but instead the pale boy simply said, "Suit yourself." He slipped the invisibility cloak around his shoulders and flipped the hood over his head, disappearing from sight. A few seconds later, the common room door opened; no one left; it closed again.

Ryan sighed. He wondered whether he shouldn't have accompanied his target, in the hope that it would reveal some new information. Somehow, he doubted it. The few Slytherins still in the common room studiously ignored Draco's conversation, the cloak, and his mysterious exit. The young man's hold over his house was truly impressive: although they knew the consequences for collusion, several of them consented to begin secret Transfusion meetings again. Ryan wasn't sure if they were motivated by genuine zeal or a fear of recrimination, but either way, Albus still had much work to do if he expected to avoid civil war.

Crabbe clattered downstairs into the common room, saw Ryan, and headed over. "Seen Draco?" He asked brusquely. His hair was wet, as if he'd just showered.

"Not since just before he left," Ryan answered with a smirk.

"Whot?" Crabbe grunted with a furrowing brow. "Oh—he's out in the cloak," he surmised.

"Yes. Anything I can help you with?" Ryan asked earnestly. Crabbe tried, he really did. Ryan had seen the young man working on spells and incantations until he fell asleep over his books. He had a brain. But his own temper and impatience defeated him. Ryan suspected the boy was truly happier being told what to do than thinking for himself.

"Maybe…." Crabbe considered his options. "It's Goyle. I can't convince him he should dump Pansy."

"Why?" Ryan asked, genuinely interested now.

"Well…Draco," he pointed out, as if it were so obvious it shouldn't need stating.

Ryan smiled. The boy's loyalty certainly couldn't be questioned. "Vincent, Draco doesn't care about Gregory and Pansy," he said bluntly.

"You're sure?" He asked earnestly.

"Positive." It never paid to be subtle with Crabbe.

"Oh." Crabbe considered this possibility for a moment. Then, with a wide grin, he repeated, "Oh!" But the revelation only lasted a second or two. He sank into Draco's chair heavily. "Yeah, but ever since he took up with her, he's all stupid."

"Define stupid," Ryan said, trying not to laugh.

"Spouting sissy poetry, holed up upstairs writing—honestly, if it weren't that I know Pansy's a girl, I'd swear he's gone pufta."

"He _is_ rather a hopeless romantic," Ryan agreed sympathetically.

"Right, so, you'll talk to him?" Crabbe appealed to him quickly.

"About…what?" Ryan asked. He didn't quite know how Draco managed these two for so long.

"Just what you said," Crabbe told him, "about how he's being hopeless. I miss the old Goyle. You could always count on him to watch your back, see? Break a few heads, bully the Hufflepuffs—you know, clean fun."

"Aah," Ryan sighed, swallowing his disapproval. "Vincent, I don't know that Greg wants to beat people up anymore," he tried to explain.

"That's exactly what I'm on about," Crabbe agreed with an emphatic finger wag. "He was always interested before—now, he's all soft and squeamish." He nodded happily. "He'll listen to you, Pelerand—go tell him to get on with things, already. Right?"

Ryan stared at Crabbe, whose open face showed utter confidence in Ryan's ability to transform Goyle into his bully persona again. The trust the boy had, the complete surety that Ryan both understood and agreed that Goyle should "break heads" with his old friend, were palpable. He couldn't face the arguing it would take to convince Crabbe otherwise. Sighing, he stood up. "Sure, Vincent, I'll talk to him."

"Brilliant," Crabbe said, leaning back and plopping his feet up on the next chair over. "I'll just wait here, shall I?"

"Sure," Ryan nodded slowly, feeling more than a little pole-axed. Every day, this assignment brought him challenges he never anticipated. 

He climbed the dormitory tower stairs wearily and reached their circular room. Knocking softly, he entered and found Goyle, as Crabbe reported, lying on his bed composing a sonnet.

"Hullo," Ryan said somberly.

"Oi," Goyle greeted him absently. "Hang on…." He held up one finger to indicate his concentration. Another dip of his pen, two more scratched words on the parchment, and, "There," he concluded triumphantly. "It's just a draft, but at least it's on paper, now." He sat up and stretched, his meaty fists punching up at the canopy of his bed. "I'm glad you came in," he continued without waiting for Ryan to speak. "I've been meaning to tell you how much it meant, when you listened—and you're absolutely right. I'm so much happier not having to pretend anymore."

Ryan smiled. "Well, that's sort of why I came up here, Greg. Crabbe's giving you some trouble, is he?"

Goyle made an amused face. "Vincent's…well…set in his ways. But we've been friends forever. He'll get over it."

"I'm sure he will. But I hope you're prepared for that to take a while."

Goyle's face fell a notch. "Yeah, I know," he acknowledged wistfully. "And it's not like things will change entirely for me, anyway. I mean, I'm sure that the Dark Lord will value me more for my physical strength than my mind. But that's okay. I don't mind so much, as long as I know I can be myself and still be useful."

"Useful?"

"Sure. Does Vincent really think I'll never want to hang about with him anymore?"

"I…think so," Ryan said, doubt creeping into his mind.

"Tell him not to worry, will you?" Goyle said with a dismissive wave of a beefy hand. "When the time comes to get rid of the Mudbloods, I'll be right there alongside him."

Ryan's voice failed him for a moment. He finally managed, without sounding too shocked, to squeak out a noncommittal, "Oh?"

"Of course," Goyle smiled broadly. "I'd never miss out on that. I mean, the glory, the honour of fighting by His side, on the side of Right—who'd willingly give that up?"

"Who, indeed?" Ryan said, feeling sick. "Why don't you tell him yourself?" He asked, tired of being in the middle.

"Oh, I don't think he'd understand it that way," Goyle said seriously. "For Vincent, any excuse to fight is a good one. But he'll see, when the time comes." He smiled openly, his face splitting wide with the grin. "Don't worry, Ryan. It'll work out," he reassured his friend.

"I'm sure it will," Ryan told him, but it did nothing to quiet his misgivings. "Well, anyway, I should get back to revising. See you," he finished quickly and retreated from the dorm.

Lupin stayed only a few days more. He expressed his regrets that he wouldn't be around for Ron's birthday at the beginning of March, but several students had already reported home that "the werewolf" was back. Ryan, who had never met Remus Lupin nor laid eyes on him while he was there, asked Draco for his account of their third year with the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.

"It was bad enough, you understand, that his robes were patched and shabby," Draco told him with glee. "And the way he taught! Pandering to students like Longbottom, who couldn't hex their way out of a bag. But then when we found out—well, Father naturally complained to the Board of Governors and tried to have Dumbledore brought up on charges. Endangering all of us like that. What was he thinking?"

Ryan shuddered. "So…he really got loose on the grounds one night?"

"Really. Professor Snape, under duress, mind you, was making him a potion to keep him 'tame' during his transformations. Tame! Imagine—but he didn't take it, or that's what Professor Snape told us."

"Why not?" Ryan asked.

Draco shrugged. "Who knows why werewolves do anything? In any case, he was sacked immediately."

"Do you think we'll have to work with them? Werewolves, I mean," Ryan mused, keeping his breath even by force of will.

The wizard considered his answer. "Well, they are naturally dark creatures, aren't they? Like Dementors, or giants. But…they're awfully hard to control. Still, if anyone can use them to advantage, it's You-Know-Who."

Ryan nodded, and shuddered again.

"Scared?" Draco smiled wickedly.

"It's nothing," Ryan said too quickly, thinking that if anyone knew how to use them to advantage, it would be Albus. "I'm sure he'll know how to deploy them," he continued, to reassure himself as much as anything.

"I hope we get to meet Him," Draco went on eagerly. "Only three weeks or so to go. What else could it be?"

The possibilities preoccupied Ryan almost as much as Draco. But Draco also had a new toy to play with: the invisibility cloak. Over the next weeks, Draco began using the cloak more often. Ryan consented to come with him once or twice, though it was difficult for them both to use the cloak. The spy wished he could find a way to restore it to its rightful owner, but he kept hoping that going with Draco would give him the evidence he needed to make his case to the Elves—and help Albus with something concrete in the process. Using the cloak, Draco infiltrated the common rooms and gathered information about Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws who privately expressed doubts about Muggle-born students. Later, he would approach the students and quietly mention things he'd "overheard." Transfusion began to grow again.

As March wore on and the holidays drew nearer, Ryan worried about being out of contact for the week away from Hogwarts. Reports sent to Albus through Minnie weren't enough; he wanted to talk to his friend before he left. The trouble was a way to get to him without giving himself away to the Slytherins, and without getting in so much trouble that Snape would toss him bodily onto the Hogwarts Express to London. Since his attempt to tell the Potions Master the truth had failed so miserably, and even Albus hadn't been successful at assuaging the man from his convictions, Ryan and Albus agreed the best thing was to give the wizard a wide berth. This wasn't possible in Potions, but he found if he avoided eye contact and pretended to be a little afraid of Snape, it made things go much easier. Snape seemed to accept Ryan's deference as an apology for his impertinence at Christmas and during the Event.

About a week and a half before the Easter holiday, Arithmancy gave Ryan an opportunity to enlist another ally in his plan: Hermione. As they paired off for an exercise on weather spells, he made sure Emma Naigle wasn't watching and caught the Gryffindor girl's eye. By pointing to himself, then to her, he indicated they should be partners. With a solemn nod, Hermione whispered quickly to her regular partner, Mandy Brocklehurst of Ravenclaw. Mandy shook her head, but Hermione nodded, and Mandy looked behind her furtively, a smile broadening on her face. She turned back and whispered something to Hermione, who nodded encouragingly. Mandy shrugged and picked up her books, crossing to a Hufflepuff boy named Thomas Moon, who was Ryan's usual partner. Moments later, Moon turned to him and said, "Sorry, mate, Mandy's asked me to pair off with her this time. You get stuck with Granger."

Feigning annoyance, Ryan protested. Moon lowered his voice and said, "Look, she's cute and she's asking me to be her partner. Help me out? Shove off."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "You owe me," he said, getting his things together.

"You'll get the best grades in the class, mate," Moon consoled him. Ryan let the matter go, feeling much more gracious than he behaved. He made an exasperated face at Emma, but obligingly moved his books to the seat Mandy vacated.

"Thanks," he muttered to Hermione quietly as he sat down, his tone mismatched with the grimace on his face.

"You're welcome," Hermione said, rolling her eyes as if she couldn't stand him. "Did you need something?"

"Yes." They pulled out the notes they needed for the spell and bent their heads over them. "I wanted to work on getting Harry his cloak, and I need to see Albus. Think we can combine those two objectives?"

"You have his cloak?" Hermione whispered, her face widening in shock.

"Calmly, please, Hermione," Ryan warned under his breath. "Malfoy hung onto it after the Event."

"I see…what did you have in mind?"

"Well…I don't want Draco expelled, sorry. If there were a way to lure him into a situation where he'd lose it…."

"We could entice him to watch a secret Gryffindor Quidditch practice," Hermione suggested.

"That might work. If he's out of the way for a few hours, it'll be much easier for me to find a pretext to see Albus."

"All right. I'll talk to Harry this evening. We can arrange it next week sometime. With luck, Harry will have his cloak back before the break"

"Perfect." Ryan let her work on the spell for the rest of the lesson.

"I'm taking the cloak; want to come?" Draco asked Ryan after dinner. They were in their room, and Ryan was sharpening a new quill from Maloriel's feathers.

"No—go on without me," Ryan told him. "I want to work on some astronomy tonight."

"Why on earth…" Draco began.

"It's equinox, Draco. And dark of the moon. How often do they coincide? No; I'm going stargazing."

"There's a whole class of Hufflepuffs up in the Astronomy tower," Draco argued with a sneer. "Since when are you so interested, anyway?"

"When there's an equinox on the dark of the moon," Ryan grinned at him. "Go on—don't hang back on my account," he coaxed. "Take Vin or Greg with you," he offered.

Draco snorted. "Greg's more likely to go stargazing with you, the nancy," he said derisively. "And Crabbe's…" he trailed off as the two in question came through the dormitory door laughing. Draco sighed. "I'll go alone, then," he announced petulantly and swept past, the cloak tucked under his arm.

"Hey, Pelerand," Crabbe called. "What's wrong with Draco?"

Ryan shrugged. "Restless, I guess." He rose, checking the time on the mantle clock. "Well, I'm off, too," he told them quickly, before getting roped into something else. Luckily, they didn't stop him. He gathered up his cloak and, using it to shield his activity from his roommates, hooked his dagger inside his boot, where his robes hid it.

Moving stealthily through the corridors, Ryan crept up the stairs, but instead of going to the tower, he opened the main portal and sneaked through it. The darkness swallowed his moss-coloured cloak and he headed straight for the forest.

By the broken twigs and slightly tamped undergrowth, Ryan found Hagrid's trail into the dense copses. He took a few paces into the woods, then removed his cloak long enough to strip off the school robes. He clipped the knife onto the belt, which he refastened around his waist over the soft trousers he wore. He folded the robes as well and gathered them up inside the cloak, leaving the bundle on a thick patch of shrubbery. Though it was cold to be bare-chested, he would soon warm up, and the cloak would only get in the way. Free of wand and robes and wizard company, for this night he could be Jorian Jorianele again. With a deep, cleansing breath in his lungs, he set off into the forest at a run.

Anvasse festivals generally coincided with naturally occurring but somewhat rare phenomena, particularly planetary conjunctions and years when the solstices or the equinoxes included some other event. At home, a dark or full moon on an equinox meant a hunt. So Ryan hunted alone. His trepidation about the upcoming holiday contributed to his desire for a hunt as well. He felt the need to feel the forest around him, to remind himself of the trees and the forest floor, to smell the sharp tang of blood as he caught a small creature—a hare, perhaps, since he only had the dagger—and to know that the gods were there. To sacrifice on a hunt night might not win their favour, but it probably wouldn't hurt. He had an uneasy feeling he would need all the help he could get.

He ran along the floor for a time, until he heard the centaurs nearby. Not wishing to disturb them, he took to the trees. He scrambled along the thick oak branches, but pulled up short just shy of a large web. He stopped so quickly he almost fell off, and he teetered for a moment regaining his balance, feeling weak at what he saw. It was an Acromantula web, or the vestiges of one. 

Ryan stood stock still, getting his breathing under control. One step more and he would have run straight into the web, gotten stuck, or at least alerted its owner…. Thinking of the owner in question, he looked around hastily. Acromantulae weren't native to the Forbidden Forest—at least, he chastised himself, not 140 years ago. So was there only one, or a whole colony? Best not to find out, either way. 

He heard none of the distinctive clicking from their pincers, and he didn't see any other signs of webs. Still, it was worse than foolish to assume they weren't around. Swallowing hard, he climbed a little higher into the canopy, above the branches large enough to support the huge legs and heavy exoskeletons. When he reached a plane of comparative safety, he breathed more easily, but still took a minute to calm down. Acromantulae! With a shiver, he doubled back to safer regions of the forest.

Safe being a relative term. The forest had changed considerably, as he expected, and the darkness made the few trails he could follow more eerie and dangerous-looking than he remembered. He skirted the centaur clearing again and paused. Perhaps it would be better to pay his respects? After all, they might be able to tell him anything else about the forest he should know. But to intrude now would interrupt their own rites. No; they did not need to be bothered by his business in the forest this night. Taking care not to come too close, he turned north. As he crossed an old trail, he caught sight of two coneys plunging into a thicket. He slowed his pace, creeping up on the briars which still quivered from their sudden entry. He could see an ear flick between two twists of vegetation. One of the coneys sat just inside a bare patch of the bush. Silently, Ryan drew his dagger. The hare's nose twitched. Ryan slipped a hand inside the thicket slowly, holding still periodically. It was so dark, no shadow fell on the rabbit to warn it. When his hand was barely an inch away, he grabbed.

The rabbit jerked and tried to flee, but Ryan already had a grip on the scruff of its neck. Its companion scurried off into the night. The hare kicked its legs in a vain attempt to defend itself. Ryan caught the hind feet, but not before receiving a couple scratches for his efforts. He carried the animal to the roots of an oak, a tree as sacred to the Anvasse as to many human wizards, and brought up the knife in his free hand. Uttering a prayer, he slit the coney's throat, cutting off its death scream mid-stroke.

He tipped the carcass down so the blood would pool at the roots of the oak, praying in an undertone all the while. The old, savage traditions sometimes worked best to get the gods' attention, and he wanted their protection in the coming weeks especially. He sang his prayer in a low, clear voice, intoning ancient names of power. "Watch over me, lend me strength, wit, and wisdom, and let me return, safe and successful, to those I love."

Leaving the offering by the tree roots, he backed away from the site respectfully and found his way out of the forest. Once, he heard an odd revving sound, almost like a car, but he avoided it and turned in the opposite direction. When he reached the clearing between wood and keep, he could see the stars. He looked up at his namesake and let the starlight soak into his skin for long minutes. Eyes closed, he meditated there, waiting for the gods'—his patron god's—answer. After a long time, he felt energized, sated by the hunt, and ready to face his ongoing challenge. When he looked up again, the wheel had spun around him and his patron star had crossed from his right to his left. It was time to go back. 

He kept to the edge of the forest, heading west until he reached the same shrub that held his castoff clothes. He threw the cloak around his shoulders, the cold finally seeping in as dawn played over the lake ahead. With his robe under his arm, he made his way up to the castle again. 

He got back in without incident, though he did have to take a detour to avoid Peeves. He worked his way to the dungeons, not bothering to stretch that morning. A few early risers were already stumbling about the Slytherin common room as he came through.

"Where were you all night?" Goyle asked as he came into the dorm room.

"Out," Ryan said with a playful smile. He noticed a little dried blood on his hands from the sacrifice, so he turned away and hung up his cloak on a post of the bed.

"You could have said you had a date," Draco teased sleepily.

Ryan didn't answer, just smiled mischievously and went to shower.

At breakfast, he asked Draco about his outing that night. "I found the Gryffindor common room," Draco told him in a proud voice. "Followed Potter and his stooges up to the seventh floor. I've even got the password, so until it changes, we can get in anytime we want to do."

"Any good leads?" Ryan asked. Draco was constantly searching for anyone who sympathized, even in Gryffindor.

But Draco snorted. "That house is full of puling, feeble-minded idiots," he concluded stingily. "The only thing useful about going up there is Granger's always doing her homework."

Ryan cocked an eyebrow. "You cribbed?" He asked incredulously. Draco was mean, condescending, bigoted, and as arrogant as his father, but even Lucius Malfoy wouldn't approve of cheating.

"I studied," Draco prevaricated. "It's nice to know if one's on the right track. And even Professor Snape can't find a reason not to give her highest marks."

"I suppose," Ryan sighed. "So, do you think you'll…'study' again soon?"

Draco smiled nastily. "I might," he conceded. "Especially with those bloody tests starting right after the holiday. All the teachers are piling it on."

He wasn't exaggerating. The whole rest of the week, their professors assigned so much extra practice, recommended so much reading, in preparation for the O.W.L.s, that the fifth-years thought their heads would burst from the added work. With all the assignments, though, it was more difficult than Draco imagined to find time to spy in the cloak. Almost a full week went by before he could break away again.

By that time, Ryan had had another chance to check with Hermione. "Did you get that practice set up?" He asked as they worked together again in Arithmancy. There were three days to go before the holiday started, and he feared Draco might take the cloak back to Malfoy Manor if Harry didn't get it soon.

"Yes. I slipped the information out in Care of Magical Creatures yesterday," she said. "You were working with Goyle," she went on to explain, "and Hagrid was talking to you, so I don't wonder you didn't catch it."

"So you think he'll come to the pitch, then?"

"Yes, I hope so. I've told Harry and Ron to have the team meet tomorrow."

"Perfect," Ryan grinned.

"I was wondering…" Hermione asked.

"Yes?"

"Why not get a teacher involved?" She blinked at him earnestly.

"Are you sure you're sixteen?" He asked her quizzically. "I never wanted anything to do with my teachers, if I could help it, at your age." He chuckled. "Besides, I said I don't want Draco in any more trouble this year—it might cause complications. Stealing is not something they'd take lightly, even given that they already know about it. No; best to arrange for you to win it back on your own. And I'd like to give Harry the satisfaction," Ryan concluded with no small amount of humour.

"You don't actually _like_ Draco, do you?" Hermione asked, worried about the answer.

Ryan sighed with the manner of someone choosing his words carefully. "I see a lot of myself in him," he said finally. "I know what he comes from, and it's not easy to grow up in that environment, believe me, in a family with a rank and reputation to uphold. No, I don't like him, Hermione—that is, I don't consider him a friend, like you do Harry and Ron. But I pity him. A great deal." His eyes were sad, and at that moment, Hermione thought, he looked very old indeed.

That night, Draco insisted on going out in the cloak again. Ryan tried to put him off, knowing that the false Quidditch practice was scheduled for the next evening, but Draco could not be dissuaded. 

"I'm working on astronomy," Draco jeered at Ryan, in a tone that sounded accusing. 

"Meaning you're meeting someone?" Ryan asked, drawing on Draco's conclusion from the equinox the week before.

"Why should I tell you?" Draco fired back. He'd been increasingly testy as the O.W.L.s approached. "If you're going to start keeping secrets again, Pelerand, then I should think you'd let me have my own." He threw the cloak over his shoulders, flipped the hood over his floating head, and if the noise on the stairwell was any indication, stormed out.

"I hope he's a lot more quiet once he leaves," Ryan said thinly to Goyle. "How's your essay coming on?"

"I still don't see why this fake Quidditch practice is necessary," Ron said to Hermione in the common room that same evening. They were sitting in their customary table in the back. Crookshanks, evidently feeling under-loved, had displayed himself prominently upon Ron's parchment and open books, but in continuation of their long-standing truce about Hermione's pet, Ron did not object.

"Don't you want to get Harry his cloak back?" Hermione countered. It was difficult to enlist their help without explaining everything about Ryan. She hoped she wouldn't have to betray his confidence, but if it came down to it, well, she did have his permission to tell them. Still, it was risky, and she didn't want to be responsible for the wrong people overhearing.

"Of course I do," Ron said with an exasperated glance at Harry, "But why don't we just threaten Malfoy that we'll tell a teacher if he doesn't give it back?"

"I think it's a good plan," Harry said slowly, "but Ron's got a point, Hermione: why arrange this fake practice? We could all get in hot water for sneaking around the grounds."

"No, that's the beauty of it," Hermione insisted, stroking Crookshanks' belly absently. The cat purred and stretched a clawed paw lazily upward. "If you've booked the field, it's only Malfoy who'll be out of bounds. And how else are we going to know where to find him when he's wearing it?"

The boys considered her reasoning. It made sense, in a maddeningly Hermione-like way. Harry wanted his cloak back, without question. And they'd never be able to catch Malfoy wearing it. 

"Hermione…" Ron ventured slowly. "Usually, you're the one who wants to bring teachers into all this. What's different this time?"

Hermione blushed a bit, looking down in her notebook while she thought of her answer. "Well…it would be his word against ours, wouldn't it?" She said slowly.

Harry shrugged. "I'm not so sure. Professor Dumbledore knows I have one, but I've never heard of Malfoy using one…" his voice trailed off as he thought. "Say, Hermione?" He asked, sitting up straighter, "How did you find out Malfoy had it, anyway?"

Hermione blushed again. "Who else would have it? You said Felicia Avery promised she'd give it back, but she didn't, did she? It probably means Malfoy wanted to keep it."

"Yeah, but that doesn't explain how you know he's wearing it around," Harry pressed further. "There's something else going on, isn't there, Hermione?"

Ron fixed Hermione with a stare. "Didn't we agree no more secrets?" He said, reminding her about a pact made shortly after she revealed her Prefect status. "If you know something, Hermione, and you haven't told us…." His face darkened. "You…you're not…. Please tell me you're not _snogging_ any of the Slytherins!" From his tone, he was mostly teasing her, but the edge of jealousy was just under the surface.

Not wanting to start another Viktor Krum-like argument, and frankly a bit perplexed at Ron's suggestion, Hermione gasped. "Ron!" She made a face. "I would _never_ do something that horrible!" They all laughed, but Harry tried again.

"Seriously, Hermione, is there more to this than you're letting on?"

Before she could answer, Fred and George came hustling through the room. They bore something heavy between them, wrapped in a cloak, but when they saw their brother and his friends in the corner, they just waved and walked through. No one else in the half-full common room was paying them any mind, though, so Hermione continued over the twins' noise.

"Ryan told me," Hermione whispered to them, quickly explaining in hushed tones how Ron's guess was partly right. As she did, the three heard the twins bumping and bustling along, wrestling the object through the short tunnel and the portrait hole at the end.

"Well, I'm blowed," Ron said, falling back in his seat. "I just thought Hagrid was wrong, and all, when he said they didn't mix. How did you put it all together, in the end?" He asked. The twins were gone, now. The portrait hole swung shut slowly.

"Well, that's what did it, really. If Hagrid was right and they had all left, I knew I needed to either look in older books, or books that weren't about wizarding society. Then I remembered that the one reference to the Pelerand family involved the Seven Houses. So I started looking for Seven Houses _outside_ of wizarding folk, and found it."

This seemed enough explanation for Harry and Ron. Accepting it, they returned to the plan for Malfoy's ambush. Crookshanks woke up, stretched, and padded across the table to Hermione, butting his head against her arms to be petted.

"So, we'll meet out on the pitch right after dinner," Ron said. "Should we get the others to come too, really make it look realistic?"

"I don't know what Fred and George would do to him," Hermione said, biting her lip. "Yes, let's do," she concluded, allowing herself an impish smile.

Just then, Crookshanks jumped off the table and began stalking something the rest of them couldn't see.

"What's up with that cat?" Ron asked, not testily, but curious.

Hermione shrugged. "Shadows, I guess. Maybe a fly?"

"This time of year?" Ron countered. Crookshanks' tail began to bottle, the hair sticking out.

Hermione swung her head around as she heard her cat begin to hiss. He was looking straight toward the stairs to the boys' tower.

"Crookshanks?" Hermione began, but before she could ask the cat, inanely, what was wrong, Neville came down the tower steps.

"Hullo," he said cheerily. "What's going on? Oof—Oops!"

The common room erupted in a flurry of fur, claws, teeth, and blond boys. Neville bumped into solid air, tripped, and fell toward the ground. Crookshanks launched himself at the spot where Neville had met a hard piece of nothing. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all jumped out of their chairs to find out what Crookshanks could be attacking. Neville, reaching out for anything to catch himself, clutched a handful of the transparent substance he had tripped on. And Draco Malfoy unclasped the invisibility cloak and ran.

Neville's mad grab had pulled Draco down to the floor, so when Crookshanks pounced, he went sailing right over Draco and onto an astonished Neville. To protect himself from the needle-sharp claws he saw coming at him, Neville brought his arms up to his face. Now that Draco had slithered out from underneath the cloak, Harry, Ron, and Hermione could see that its silvery folds were grasped tightly in Neville's fists. Ron and Harry pushed away their chairs in an effort to run after Malfoy, who was already diving for the tunnel. Crookshanks followed a step behind, executing a feline midair course correction to follow the intruder instead of the blond Neville, who had rolled out of the way and was fumbling to retrieve his wand, too shocked to even worry about the cloak.

"Grab him!" Ron shouted.

"Watch it!" Said Harry, who saw the ginger streak a second before Ron did. Crookshanks bolted through Ron's legs to leap into the tunnel and pursue Malfoy, tripping Ron up in the process. Ron fell to his knees, catching himself on the lip of the crawlspace, which caused Harry to crash into him. They heard Malfoy laughing on the other side of the portrait hole.

"Come on!" Hermione said quickly, catching up to them. But she pulled up short as Crookshanks returned, proudly displaying a torn shred of black daywear robe. Crookshanks better resembled a guard-dog than a cat, until he fell on one side and batted the piece of cloth repeatedly with his hind legs, gnawing at it ferociously. The sight was too silly not to laugh.

"Hey!" Shouted Neville, who disentangled himself from the cloak and rushed to join the other three. "Aren't we going after him?" He asked, confused. Since his first year, this was as close as Neville had been to the others' adventures, and he didn't want it to end, just yet.

"With any luck, Filch will catch him," Harry said. "And he doesn't need to catch us." He didn't have to add that Malfoy would certainly try to pin the blame on his pursuers.

"Besides," Ron added between gales of laughter, "Good old Crookshanks here took the seat right out of his robes!" He held his sides. "Imaging Malfoy going all the way back to his common room with his underwear showing!"

"And—hey, Neville!" Harry remarked, noticing the bundle as if for the first time. "You rescued my cloak! Good show, Neville!" Harry thumped him on the back. Neville looked back and forth from Harry to Ron, amazed at the attention. Then he broke out in a grin. "This calls for a celebration, don't you think?" Harry asked, brandishing the valuable garment. "As we've got it back, why don't Ron and I pop down to the kitchens for some party food?"

They insisted on going over Hermione's well-thought-out objections. Clearly, their desire for a party outweighed all their careful logic concerning Filch. As they left the portrait hole, all she could think was how grateful she was that they only had a few days to go until the break.

It wasn't until a few days later that she realized: she didn't know how much Malfoy had overheard. She went down to breakfast, hoping to see Ryan and warn him that Malfoy just might have been in the room when they were discussing him. But the Great Hall was about half empty, with many of the students taking the train that day back to London, and a quick glance at the Slytherin table showed Malfoy and Ryan to be absent, among many others. Still, she reasoned, they didn't have to get up for anything, so they might be at lunch. 

But there was no sign of them at midday, either. "Ron," she asked as they ladled soup into their bowls, "do you remember exactly when Crookshanks woke up the night Malfoy was in the common room?"

"No," Ron shook his head without hesitation and slurped a spoonful of soup. 

"We were talking about the plan to get the cloak back," Hermione mused, calculating.

"Yeah, I remember that," Ron said after swallowing. "What's the matter?"

"He's not here. Neither is Ryan. I think they left for the holiday."

"So?" Ron asked with a shrug. Harry, sensing the start of a quarrel, suddenly found his bowl and spoon very interesting.

"So, if Malfoy was there early enough, he might have heard something important. And if he heard anything, he might tell his father."

"All we talked about was the Quidditch plan, and that didn't turn out to matter, did it?" Ron concluded. He reached for a piece of bread and buttered it. 

"We also talked about Ryan," Hermione reminded him testily.

"Oh. Yeah." Ron ate more soup. Harry could see him turning pink, but he didn't think it was because the soup was hot. "Got a thing for him, now, do you?" He muttered. "Starting SPREE? Society for the Protection of Really Elderly Elves?"

Harry spoke up to avoid the two of them from bickering worse than usual. "But no one came in then," he offered seriously. "I reckon Malfoy must have come in right on the end of what you said, Hermione, because that's when Fred and George went out. Any idea what they were doing, Ron, by the way?"

"No clue. Weasley's Wheezes, no doubt." He focused back on Hermione. "I think Harry's right. It makes sense, doesn't it? Fred and George left; Malfoy came in when they went out. As soon as he got there, Crookshanks sensed him, didn't he?"

"Yes…" Hermione said, but she felt a little knot form in the pit of her stomach. 

When Draco had returned that night without the cloak, Ryan sensed he was angry and upset, and wisely didn't ask. Clearly something had happened. Draco's robes were torn, and Ryan suspected Mrs. Norris. Which meant the cloak was in the possession of Argus Filch, and unless Albus stepped in forcefully, Harry might have lost his cloak until graduation. Either way, he'd have to find out whether Draco intended to sneak a peek at the "special" Quidditch practice. 

Trouble was, Draco hadn't mentioned the practice to Ryan yet. So instead of asking about it that same night, Ryan waited until the next day. Pretending to have heard it elsewhere, he asked whether Draco had heard the rumour as well. The results of his inquiry were most revealing.

"I heard about it, all right," Draco sneered in the direction of the Gryffindor table. "Heard more than I need to do. It was just a ruse to get Potter back his cloak. Well, I'm smarter than that," he concluded. The knot of Slytherin students around them all nodded agreement.

Ryan frowned. "It's a trap, then?" He repeated. "How did you find out?"

Draco's face flooded with colour. "I overheard them plotting in the common room," he admitted proudly, but underneath there was tinge of embarrassment. "And then…that stupid idiot Longbottom tripped and—" Draco cut himself off. "Anyway, there's no practice, not anymore."

Ryan nodded, but said nothing. At least, he thought, that explained the missing cloak. Draco must have torn his robes getting away—a circumstance to which few adults would care to admit. It looked like half the students around them understood as well and wanted to laugh at Draco's predicament, but were afraid to do. In contrast, Ryan adopted an attitude of sympathy. 

"Too bad," he said, and meant it. If Harry already had his cloak back, and Draco had no need to sneak out to their fake practice, it was unlikely Ryan could fabricate an excuse to see Dumbledore before leaving later that week.

In the end, he settled for a sealed note passed to Hermione in their last Arithmancy class. She was staying, along with Harry and Ron, and thus would stand a far greater chance of running into the Headmaster informally while there were fewer students at school. 

Sitting on the train with Draco, Ryan asked about how well the new recruitment efforts were going, whom Draco had contacted, and how they had responded. Without a doubt it was an enlightening conversation, and Ryan listened carefully to the answers so he could report them to Albus when they got back. 

"So, what's been eating you, anyway?" He ventured casually.

Draco burst with energy. "I'm tired of all this talking about things!" He exploded, standing up in the compartment and leading them out into the aisle, just to be able to move. "I want to _do_ something. Do you think we'll get to participate this time, instead of just watch?"

They walked up and down the train, which, like the Great Hall at Hogwarts, was only half full. The topic turned to Draco's anticipation of what would meet them when they reached the Manor. Would the Dark Lord await them? Would there be another party? Would Lucius take them along on a nighttime act of terrorism? Draco asked a litany of questions and answered them as quickly in hushed and conspiratorial tones. Ryan shared Draco's curiosity, but had to fabricate a matching enthusiasm. As they neared London, Draco remembered something from his owl post that morning. "We're supposed to change into some dress robes," he told Ryan, and they returned to their compartment. "Mother said something about getting dinner in town."

When they disembarked the train, Draco in a set of charcoal robes, and Ryan in his customary forest green, Narcissa was waiting on the platform.

"Such handsome young men to escort me!" She crowed. Ryan dreaded this meeting. At Christmas, her solicitous nature had turned predatory until Lucius stepped in. The whole thing embarrassed Ryan terribly, then and now, and he waited to see whether her attitude had resurfaced. But he could detect nothing in her manner that even hinted at a sexual interest. Relaxing perceptibly, he joined her and Draco. "We'll have to start without your father," she explained to Draco as their chauffeur collected their bags. "He's had an errand to run. He'll meet us at the restaurant."

"What sort of errand?" Draco blurted. Ryan thanked him—he was burning to know, but etiquette prohibited his asking. 

"An important one," Narcissa said with a sly smile. "Come along, my dears," she said, cutting off any further questions. Draco shot a sidelong grin at Ryan, who grinned back just as evilly. But her secretiveness made him more uneasy. He was strangely grateful he had decided to slip his dagger into his boot when Draco wasn't looking.

The restaurant was fancy and the Malfoys were known to the Maitre D'. He conducted them to a quiet table toward the corner furthest from both the entrance and the kitchen. They had barely ordered drinks when Lucius arrived, looking crisp as ever in robes of midnight blue. He took his seat and ordered a drink in a single fluid continuum, squeezing Narcissa's hand in greeting.

"You're both looking well," he appraised the two young men.

"Thank you, sir," Ryan responded with automatic politeness. A half-second behind him, Draco thanked his father as well.

"Hungry?" Lucius interrogated. It was an innocent enough question, but something in his eyes made Ryan wonder if it were some odd test. He nodded noncommittally.

"Famished," said Draco with a lop-sided grin. Lucius returned the smile; it was like looking in Draco's mirror.

"Good. It'll be a long night, boys, so eat well." They opened their menus and behind his, Draco winked and grinned widely at Ryan. Ryan felt a little knot form in the pit of his stomach. What did Lucius have planned? Or more to the point, was the plan his, or Voldemort's?

Ryan managed to clean his plate despite his misgivings. The fish he ordered was far too delicious not to finish it. Draco had a thick steak, and it seemed to Ryan that the young wizard only avoided attacking it due to the posh atmosphere of the restaurant, and the meticulousness with which the others ate. Lucius delicately spooned his seafood bisque and then moved on to some kind of pasta, accompanied by a glass of scotch, while Narcissa chose a complicated salad and a glass of wine. Both were the picture of gracious living throughout the meal.

As they ate, they talked of everything imaginable except Lucius's errand or the task he alluded to earlier. Certainly there was no discussion of the Death Eaters, or any plans for missions during the holidays. Instead, Lucius had quizzed them on their classes, the O.W.L. preparation, and the Inter-House Quidditch season, while Narcissa not-so-subtly asked Draco about girlfriends and social doings at school.

At last, they all set down their silverware deliberately and waited while Lucius settled the bill. They rose, worked their way through the restaurant (a lengthy affair, since many greeted Mr. Malfoy as they passed), and stepped into the cool air. Their magic car pulled around to the curb before they could even fasten their cloaks.

"I'll see you at home, then?" Narcissa asked her husband cheerily.

Lucius smiled and replied with a curt nod, but held her back as she reached for her wand. He looked at Ryan and Draco for a moment. "Draco, would you and Ryan excuse us for a moment, please?" He asked with painstaking formality.

"Of course, father," Draco said quickly, and he and Ryan strolled away a few paces to give his parents some privacy.

"What do you think we're off to do?" He asked Ryan as they walked.

"No idea," Ryan muttered. He glanced across the street. He could see in a darkened shop window Lucius and Narcissa's reflections. They were walking into an alley, and Lucius's hand rested on Narcissa's shoulder possessively. "Did he give any hint in the letter?"

Draco shook his head, pulling his cloak a little tighter. The two stood in uncomfortable silence for a minute or two longer, until Ryan saw Lucius's reflection in the window emerge out of the alley. He was alone.

"We can go back," he said with a jerk of his head. The car shortened the distance between them, rolling forward slowly until they reached the back door. It opened for them; Lucius was already seated. "Get in," he ordered. "Your mother Apparated home. We need the car for this," he said to Draco, who nodded, but still looked confused. Ryan remembered him saying something about how much Lucius hated using even wizarding versions of Muggle contraptions.

Draco and Ryan climbed in and sat facing Lucius. He didn't say anything to them on the trip, and the driver seemed to know where they were going. From the way he studied the two of them, Ryan got the distinct impression he was testing them again. Their nerve, perhaps? Or their patience? If so, Lucius would be disappointed. Like any member of his race, Ryan could be very patient.

A furtive glance at Draco confirmed his suspicion: Lucius definitely wanted to see how well they could withstand the tension. The boy sat with his hands in his lap, absently chewing the inside of his lip. He seemed to understand implicitly that his father wanted the silence to lengthen, to see which of them would break it first.. Though Draco kept his tongue, his demeanour became increasingly nervous. Ryan, however, sat with the liquid stillness of his kind. He slid his eyes to the tinted windows on the off chance there would be some clue where they were going. For all he knew, this trip was an elaborate trap. If so, he had his wand, and he had the little dagger concealed in his boot. Truly, if the situation became that desperate, he had other magic available to him, as well. But the night was all blackness and occasional indistinct Muggle streetlights, streaked by their rate of speed. There was no way to tell where they were headed. There was no sense worrying about it until they got there.

The journey continued in silence. Given the car's magic properties, Ryan wondered how far they were going to go. He almost suspected the continent, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Draco just about to break, when the car slowed and rolled to a stop.

"We're here," Lucius said curtly. They waited while the doors opened on their own and allowed Lucius to exit first. As Ryan unfolded himself from the bench seat, he took a long look around him. By the stars' report, they were not as far north as Hogwarts, but had gone a considerable way in its direction from London. But this was not the cliff-lined Atlantic coast, either. They were on a pier overlooking a rocky shore. He could hear the sea pounding against the dock as waves hit the jagged ground, smell the salt heavy in the clear night air. Far in the distance, he could make out a dark shape against the dark horizon; a single light shone from the point. A pilot boat waited for them on this side. 

Lucius indicated they were to take the boat, so one at a time they climbed down the suspiciously rickety ladder and onto the deck. The captain untied the rope and the boat slid silently into the water, far too fast for a boat with no motor.

"I hope you don't get seasick," Lucius said with a telling look at Ryan. "It's a bit choppy, and it's some distance to the island."

Ryan, who tolerated the sea, simply shook his head. "Fine so far, sir," he said without worrying about the impression. He gripped the handrail, but as he had on the train to Hogwarts, so many months ago, he kept his knees slightly bent so that the boat's motion did not pitch him about. After the stifling atmosphere of the car, the fresh air was cold, but welcome.

Draco found a place to sit as soon as the boat embarked, and he watched the water with a face turning progressively green. Ryan wished Lucius would tell the boy to look at the horizon, rather than just below the boat, but tonight seemed to be all about how well each of them could take challenges. He did think it cruel of Lucius not to mention an impending ocean voyage when he recommended they eat heartily. Once they got a fair distance from shore, though, the waves settled considerably, and Draco's colour improved.

The huge blackness ahead of them grew greater as they approached, but the light they saw also got brighter. Finally, they drew near enough to see that the light came from a lantern hung on a matching pier, one that looked like it hadn't been repaired in a while. The pier was set on a rocky promontory which extended from a barren island, possibly two or three miles long, and no more than a mile wide. As it came into the cove formed by the peninsula, the boat slowed and halted, bobbing on the surf next to the dock. The captain tied off the ropes. Ryan took advantage of the wait to view their destination. High cliffs jutted above them everywhere. He could see a stair carved out of the stone that extended up to what looked like it could be a fortress. Suddenly, he believed he knew where they had come: the wizard prison, Azkaban.

They left the boat and Lucius lit his wand. They crossed the pier and stopped at the foot of the stone steps. Lucius regarded each of them for a moment, and then at last, spoke to them both. "It's time you knew something about our purpose tonight," he said. "You may have guessed already that this is Azkaban. The Ministry believes it to still be under their control. But they are wrong. 

"Our Master has contacted the Dementors who guard the fortress, and they have agreed to join us. However, it is in our best interest at the moment that no one outside know they have turned. So they continue their work, keeping the fortress under their power, but with two important differences: first, our supporters are free to leave; and second, the wizard governors of the island are controlled by us. Wands out, boys."

They complied. Lucius's eyes glittered as he continued. "We have to collect some people. Be prepared: although they serve us, Dementors cannot control their powers the way wizards can. If you come too close, they will still affect you. Draco: I know you have learned the Patronus; have you, Ryan?"

"I've heard of it," Ryan said truthfully. He felt it best to downplay his magical ability, now more than ever. 

"Good. Don't be a hero—use it if you need it. This is a simple mission, but important, nonetheless."

They nodded their understanding.

"Ready?" Lucius asked, eyes burning coldly. They nodded again. "Good." He turned away and began to climb.

For a long time, they ascended the stairs, their hands occupied with robes and cloaks and wands. Ryan could hear Draco's breathing become more labored as they climbed. He felt winded himself, and wondered how much longer they had to go. Just as he felt the effort of looking at the stairs was too dizzying, they reached the top. The fortress loomed ahead of them. It was not entirely dark, he realized, gazing up at it; it only appeared deserted because the windows were only thin arrow slits. Up close, he could see tiny lights like candles flicker here and there.

A door as massive as the one at Hogwarts opened and a thin, greying wizard emerged. "There's no scheduled visit tonight," he began, but before he could get further, Lucius pointed his wand. 

"_Imperio_," he said commandingly. The wizard slackened. With an eerie lack of expression, he turned around and led them inside.

Lucius kept his wand on the jailer while they followed him through the maze of tunnel-like corridors. A series of torches flickered in sconces set quite far apart from one another, and the shadows dripped between like damp cloaks. Where the shadows loomed darkest, the walls looked faintly slick; where the light shone brightest, they looked slimy and damp. The halls were musty, smelling of decay. Gone was the bracing fresh scent of the sea; in its place was only stale air, mouldering and stuffy. Not even the bars in the cell doors, each one opposite a narrow, tall, barred window, could create enough of a breeze to brush their skin and give the illusion of open space. 

Occasionally, they passed a Dementor guarding a passage or a cell; Lucius spoke a password and every one let them pass unhindered. They had to be going up, but the labyrinthine corridors themselves betrayed no feeling of nearing the sky. They could have been in the bowels of Gringotts for all the gloom that followed them, palpable in the cobwebs, the cracks in the stone, and the slimy algae growing in dark corners. The place echoed their footsteps, and an occasional wail or sob escaped a cell to waft past them, an occasional prisoner pleaded for release as they passed. Ryan concentrated on his own well-being, aware that he was sweating with the effort, but he noticed that Draco looked ashen and was trembling slightly the further into Azkaban they went. 

They stopped in a section patrolled by Dementors, closed off behind gates of iron bars. The high security wing. Ryan felt his pulse quicken. It was amazingly cold. The voices of old friends, dead and dying, echoed in Ryan's head. He remembered times he'd been injured, loves lost, and of course, worst of all, missions failed. Ryan shivered and concentrated on happy thoughts, chanting the Patronus in his mind, though not actually conjuring it. It helped, but not enough. He wanted them done and out of the place, as quickly as possible.

"_Remonstrar_," Lucius repeated the password, and the Dementors moved away to the far end of the corridor. It was still cold, but the fears and sad memories receded even more.

It was disturbing to watch the old man follow Lucius's unspoken orders. He stopped in front of a cell, unlocked it, and did the same to another down the hall. The doors swung open.

"Lestrange," Lucius called sharply. "It's time."

A man shuffled out of the first cell. He was wasted, far too thin, and his hair and beard had grown in matted tangles where it wasn't falling out in patches. His nails were long and claw-like; his face sunken; but his eyes shone with a bright fire that sent a chill down Ryan's spine.

"Our master has returned?" He asked Lucius in a rasping voice.

"He has," Lucius nodded gravely. "Come along now; there's work to do."

Lestrange's face warped itself into a hideous smile. Half his teeth were gone, but his expression could only be described as beatific. "I knew he would save us," he said solemnly to Lucius. "I felt the mark burn…but…it was so long coming." His face clouded and he looked about to weep. "Why did you wait so long?" He almost sobbed.

"All will be clear in time.…" Lucius assured him, as if speaking to a very small child.

"Where…where's Tony?" Lestrange asked in a disappointed tone, looking at Draco and Ryan dazedly.

Lucius sighed before answering. "He's dead, Justin," he said, and Ryan could hear the tone of a reminder, as if this were something the other should have known. But the sound of the man's name produced another result.

"Justin…." A higher voice called feebly from the second cell. "Justin…."

Lestrange's eyes widened and he pushed his way inside, out of view. The stone walls made the sounds echo in odd patterns, expanding the sound here, swallowing it there, so that the murmurs they heard from the little chamber could not be distinguished. Ryan supposed they might not be real words, in any event, but more like sobs of relief or anguish—it was difficult to tell which.

Lucius made use of the time to force the wizard guard to open another cell and coaxed that inmate outside as well. 

"Mulciber! On your feet, man, you are summoned," Lucius called, prodding the man to focus on him. The tactic worked; Mulciber's eyes cleared and he shambled into the corridor, blinking as if waking from a long sleep. His appearance was similar to Lestrange's, but differed in that his head was bald, and he seemed less thin. By the time this one ventured out to the corridor, Justin Lestrange also reappeared, an equally grotesque figure in his arms.

"She's so weak," he pleaded with Lucius. It was only then Ryan realized the other was a woman. She was impossibly thin, with small bird-like bones. She whimpered pitifully as Justin dragged her to join them.

"Yes, I know," Lucius replied soothingly, again as if to a pet or a child. "Draco, take over for me: have our friend here lead us back down to the exit. Ryan, help Justin and Seporah." 

Ryan set his wand in his belt and joined Justin on Seporah's other side, supporting her with one arm. Draco leveled his wand and incanted, "_Imperio_!" firmly. 

Lucius went into each room in turn and efficiently cast a sinister-sounding spell inside. When he came out of Seporah's cage, he pointed to the nearest Dementor. "You'll report in the morning that these three died overnight. Arrange a detail of your kind to 'bury' the remains. We'll contact you with further instructions." The Dementor's hood bobbed up and down silently and it turned back to the little circle of his companions.

A split second later, they were moving out of the high security wing. Lucius fished in his robes for a large bar of chocolate, which he broke into three sections and handed to each prisoner. Seporah was not lucid enough to eat hers, so Ryan took it and held it under her nose like smelling salts. She revived enough for him to cram a corner of the chocolate into her mouth. "Eat," he ordered. She bit down and coughed, then reached out for the rest, forcing it all into her mouth in one go. Fortified by the sudden burst of flavor, she wobbled forward a step or two.

"'M all right," she confirmed, sounding slightly drunk. She had trouble walking straight, as well, though Ryan knew she could not be intoxicated.

"Come along," Lucius said to the little group, and Draco pointed his wand again. The man trundled in front of them and stage by stage, they left the Dementors and the screaming inmates behind. As they got further and further away, the three prisoners seemed to regain their spirits in different ways.

"I shall have a wand again, shall I?" The third inmate said brightly to Ryan. "Oh, to piss in the skulls of my enemies!" He cackled ferociously. "I shall crunch their bones in my teeth," he went on. Ryan grunted. The man's teeth looked more yellowed and rotten than Snape's.

"Just a little further, love," Justin Lestrange chanted to the female. "Just a little further, and we shall be back in the circle of our Master's supporters."

Lucius produced a second bar of chocolate as they returned to the entry hall, past the last of the Dementors. He broke it into six this time, and nibbling a little of his own slab, he aimed his wand at the jailer. "_Imperio_. Release him, Draco," he signaled, and Draco, who by now was shaking with the effort of controlling the old man, tipped his wand away and munched his chocolate gratefully.

They filed outside with Lucius keeping his wand aimed and going last. "Boys, take them to the stairs. I'll be with you shortly," he said, fixing his gaze on the wizard. They moved away. Ryan offered to go down first, but the third inmate skipped ahead of him and began bounding down the steps with unusual energy. Ryan went down a few steps and instructed Lestrange to balance Seporah between them. "Draco, watch him, will you?" Ryan asked as they began their descent.

A few seconds later, Lucius appeared at the top and joined them. "Everything all right?"

"Mulciber's getting ahead, but he's steady enough," Ryan said coldly. "She could use more chocolate, I think."

Lucius frowned and broke off most of his piece. "Here," he said, handing the section to Draco, who passed it to Justin, who fed it to Seporah and then licked his own fingers. 

Their climb down went much more slowly for the ungainliness of their charges, but eventually, they reached the pier. Mulciber chose that moment to become a little paranoid, however, and it took Lucius a few tries for him to recognize his fellow Death Eater and calm down.

They climbed into the boat, and all sat, exhausted. The captain shoved off from the dock and they headed back to shore. During the boat ride, Seporah fell asleep against Justin's shoulder, but though his arms were bony, he held her with fierce protectiveness. As they approached the shore and the waves picked up force, she woke, coughing, and heaved herself to the side of the boat, where she was violently sick.

"Wh—where are we?" She asked, looking around as if just waking.

Justin was at her side in an instant. "Almost to the mainland. We're free," he told her with surprising tenderness. 

"I—" Seporah looked around with wide eyes. "Lucius?" She asked incredulously.

"Yes," he answered, raising hooded eyes to her. "It's true, Seporah. He has decided to return you to his service."

Like Justin, the news drove Seporah into an almost religious fervour. "I knew he would not forget us. I knew it." She clapped her hands and twirled on the deck like a young girl, but became dizzy and Justin reached out to steady her. 

"Come along, now," Lucius said indulgently, rising. The captain tied off the boat and Lucius pressed several coins into the man's hand. They all disembarked and the captain tipped his hat to Lucius, a second before he realized that the wizard held a wand to his head. "Obliviate," Lucius intoned. The man's face clouded for a moment, then cleared, but with no recognition of what had happened to him. 

They bundled the weakened wizards and witch into the limousine. There was more than enough room for all six of them, but Lucius stayed outside. "There's more chocolate in the bar, Draco, if anyone needs it. I'll meet you at the safehouse. It shouldn't take you more than ten minutes or so to get there." Then without any other explanation, he Disapparated.

Ryan was glad it was such a relatively short journey. The Death Eaters fell upon the chocolate immediately, devouring it without any regard for their manners or whether their two young companions needed more. Mulciber became carsick soon after they reached their cruising speed, presumably from so much chocolate so quickly, and Ryan and Draco both had to cast a cleaning spell to get rid of the mess. Then, heartened by the chocolate, Justin began asking questions to which neither of them knew answers. When Draco finally said, "Ask my father when we get there," Justin and Seporah began fawning over him like an infant. Ryan suspected their euphoria was reactionary, and would fade, but in the meantime, it simply magnified their mood swings.

"Aw, and he's got Lucius's eyes, even, Justin, we should have seen that right away," Seporah crooned.

"To think we missed him getting all grown up," Justin commented proudly. Then he seemed to see Ryan for the first time. "Who are you, then?" He demanded to know.

"Just along for the ride," Ryan answered caustically. 

They reached what Lucius called the safehouse: a country estate smaller than Malfoy Manor, but very secluded in a small valley. Ryan guessed they were still far north of London, from the temperature and the position of the stars when he looked up, though it was also quite late.

Lucius and two others came out of the house and each took charge of one of the convicts. As Draco and Ryan trailed behind, Lucius looked over his shoulder. "We'll stay here the rest of the night; head home in the morning." At this, they shrugged at one another and followed inside, wondering whose hospitality they enjoyed.

Hermione clutched the fold of parchment, fingering Ryan's seal as she stalked the second floor corridor. She cursed herself for missing her last chance to warn Ryan to be extra careful while with Draco over the holiday. At first, she allowed Ron and Harry to allay her worries, but they kept coming back. Her concern kept her up at night, while she went over and over the conversation in her mind, and the timing between Fred and George's exit and discovering Draco in the common room. She still couldn't be sure exactly how quickly Draco had gotten in, or what he might have heard. She was certain her fears had some kind of basis, though. The only thing she could think to do was to tell Professor Dumbledore. She hoped for a chance meeting, to simply run into him alone, but he had been frustratingly elusive. She hadn't yet seen him anywhere other than meals in the Great Hall, and he was surrounded at those times. Though it was only the third day of the break, she was determined: she wanted to find a way to deliver Ryan's report, and voice her misgivings, today.

She paced the area to either side of the gargoyle statue, waiting for someone to go in or out. She supposed she could ask Professor McGonagall for access, but something made her feel she should not trust another go-between. Besides, she was a little sheepish to admit to Professor Dumbledore that his friend was at great risk, and it was probably her fault. The less people who knew about that failing, the better.

She reached the end of the corridor and spun to return, but checked herself in surprise. Approaching the gargoyle was the one professor she tried most to avoid: Professor Snape. She thought about ducking around the corner; but too late, Snape had seen her.

"What are you doing, hanging about here?" He sneered accusingly.

"I was hoping to see the Headmaster, sir," Hermione answered, trying to sound cool and collected, but unable to hide a nervous undertone.

Snape narrowed his eyes at her. "Has Potter gone off on crusade again?" He asked disdainfully. "There's important business to be done, Miss Granger. The Headmaster has greater concerns at present."

Hermione began to protest, but Snape cut her off. "Go back to your common room," he ordered impatiently. Hermione flushed, but stood her ground. They stared at each other on either side of the gargoyle.

"This is important business, too," she insisted.

Snape scoffed. "Whatever Potter has done, he can face the consequences himself." He concluded. "Get back to your common room, Miss Granger. That is not a request."

Hermione bit her lip, but shook her head firmly. Snape's eyes flashed, his nostrils flared, and she was certain he was about to say, "Detention," but at that moment, the gargoyle sprang out from between them, and Albus Dumbledore stepped out of the break in the wall.

"Ah, Severus," he said pleasantly. He moved aside from the entrance and invited the Potions Master up. Turning, he took in Hermione with a long glance from head to toe. "Miss Granger, I noticed you have been waiting. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Please, sir," Hermione said breathlessly, "I need to talk to you about…a friend of mine, from Gryffindor." She held out the neatly folded and sealed parchment. Snape halted before stepping onto the magic escalator, eyeing their conversation with suspicion.

Dumbledore took the report, noting the seal, and he lifted his eyebrows at Hermione mischievously. "I see," he said gravely after a moment. "Yes, of course, but you see I already have an appointment. Could I trouble you to return in perhaps an hour?"

Hermione nodded, too relieved to trust her voice. Her throat felt unusually tight. Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling, and she stammered a brief, "Thank you, Headmaster," before retreating toward the stairwell back to Gryffindor Tower.

An hour and a half later, she completed her narrative in Professor Dumbledore's office. She explained how she confronted Ryan, how they contrived to repossess the cloak, and what happened on the night Draco infiltrated the common room. 

"I don't know whether he heard enough to learn anything," she concluded, "but even if he only heard us mention Ryan, it might be enough to make him suspect. I'm sure we talked about the Seven Houses. But I doubt he'll know what that is at all."

"He might not, but should he mention it to his father…." Dumbledore frowned. "That changes things considerably, Miss Granger. Dear me, I do wish I had known this before," he continued softly.

"I'm sorry, Professor, but I only just—"

"I was not blaming you, Miss Granger," Dumbledore interrupted her evenly. "Merely saying that if I had realized Ryan's predicament earlier, I could have issued other orders. Hm…." He scribbled himself a note. "I'll need to send them an owl, I suppose. I only hope Lucius doesn't repeat Jareth Malfoy's stunt…."

"Er, Professor Dumbledore?" Hermione ventured, as it seemed to her the elderly wizard had forgotten her completely.

"Hm?" Dumbledore said, looking up. "Oh, of course. Excuse me," he apologized gallantly. "I wonder if you would do me a small service? In that cupboard, Miss Granger, you will find a stone bowl filled with a silvery substance. Could you please place it here on the desk for me, while I jot down this note?"

Hermione jumped up and crossed to the cupboard as requested. Inside was more than just a stone bowl: there was a model of Hogwarts itself, a pearl-handled hand mirror, and a creased and wrinkled square fold of parchment—

"Is this Harry's map?" She asked despite herself.

"You mean, Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs' map?" Dumbledore confirmed with a distracted chuckle, not looking up. "Yes, I believe it is. The young Mr. Crouch had it with him when he was apprehended last year." He said no more about it, though, so Hermione simply brought the bowl to the desk for him, wondering absently whether those figures in the model were really moving, or if she just imagined it.

"And this is a Pensieve, isn't it, sir?" She asked of the bowl, too thirsty for knowledge to worry about propriety.

"It certainly is. I have much to think about." He signed the note and rolled it up quickly. 

"Headmaster, what did you mean about Jareth Malfoy's stunt?" Hermione asked suddenly, as if she'd just realized what he said. She blushed, realizing she was prying, but Dumbledore merely nodded broadly. He prodded the bowl with his wand, and the silver substance began to swirl very fast, until it looked smooth and clear, like glass.

"Ah," Dumbledore smiled ruefully. "The precise memory I was thinking of. Let me show you." 

Dumbledore placed his wand to his head and after a moment drew it away. A long wisp of white hair seemed to come away with it, but then Hermione realized it wasn't his hair, but a strand of the same silvery-white substance as the stuff in the bowl. He added this new thought to the pensieve, and to Hermione's astonishment, she saw her own face look up at her. Dumbledore closed his long fingers around the bowl and swirled it, rather like a prospector panning for gold…and the bowl's contents told their story.

A/N: Fear not, you will find out what Jareth did to Ryan, next time! Apologies to everyone for taking so long with this chapter—it would have been longer but I'm a sneaky devil and wrote faster than I anticipated. I also decided not to hold off posting until chapter 11 was also pretty much written. Of course, you all realize that means you'll have to wait for that one, too, but I promise it will be worth it! Just ask A'jes' Blue, the bestest beta-reader anyone could ask for, who reminds me about all the tantalizing details I've left out, and gets me to think about them so they all come out right. Thanks as always to everyone who is reading, and even more thanks to those who left a review, but especially to: L.C., A.L. Milton, Reethi, Hermione L. Granger, Mae, Mina Jade, Kaelyn, Rosa, Oi, Parker Brown Nesbit, Heidi Tandy, Keiru, Tonga, 1960 DeSoto, Giesbrecht, Mwalimu, Chimaera, Karina, Katie Bell, and IridescenceFairy, who all had specific points, be they praise, questions, or criticism, about chapter 9. Not that it changes anything I will or won't do, but the in-depth reviews really help keep me see what people get and what they don't. It keeps me on track.

Want more things to do while you wait for chapter 11? See "Finding Forrester." It's a great movie about writing. Also check out "Shrek," "Atlantis," and if you're old enough, "Memento," all credible flicks in a theatre near you. And get away from the computer for a while, it's summer!

Some of you asked if I have written any other stories, and I'm going to take a second here to pre-apologize for something I'm going to do. Currently, "HMSS" is the only story I have up on ffn, but it's nowhere near the first story I've written. I've been holding off on publishing any other stories to avoid confusion while this is in progress. Now, I promise I'll finish this story, but in the meantime I may publish some of my other fiction. Be warned, a lot of my other stuff is meant for adults only. Some of it's NC-17, or slash (homoerotica), or both. So for those of you who have me on author alert, please don't be surprised or offended if some emails pop up saying I've published, but it's not "HMSS." But if you're legally able to check them out and not afraid of other subject matter (HP, SW, Pern, Highlander), feel free to read that stuff to tide you over. And there are plenty of wonderful HP titles in the works by other authors as well. Currently, I'm reading "Dreamwalk Blue," "A Surfeit of Curses," "Snitch!" (Chapter 6 is forthcoming!), and "Irresistible Poison," among others. I've also finished "Personal Risks," sequel to "The Potion Master's Apprentice," and "Unsuspecting Hearts" (which has a slash sequel in the works, as well as the (non-slash) sequel to its companion piece, "Full Moon Rising," in the works, so stay tuned for those). There's some great one-shots out there, too, and many series that have been recommended but that I haven't had time to read. So go read and review responsibly. Okay, I'm climbing off my soapbox now and going back to business school.


	11. Revelations

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretences

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretences. As a Slytherin, he befriended Draco Malfoy to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, Ryan observed an Anvasse religious rite, Harry got his cloak back from Draco, and at the beginning of the holiday, Ryan and Draco helped Lucius Malfoy to rescue three Death Eaters from Azkaban. But Hermione, concerned that Draco knows too much, went to visit Albus Dumbledore, who instructed her to bring his pensieve to him….

Hermione gazed intently at the swirling stuff in the bowl. At Dumbledore's encouraging nod, she leaned forward and felt a disorienting pull as she pitched and fell into the realm of the Headmaster's collected memories. The scene cleared and settled, and she watched as a darkened Gryffindor common room came into view. She could see a very young boy sitting by a dying fire, his book open on his lap, staring into space with his head thrown back against the stuffed wing of his chair. He looked almost asleep even though his eyes were half open. He had long hair, shining dark auburn in the fire's embers, bright blue eyes, and glasses perched on his very long nose. She realised with a sudden intuition that this had to be the Headmaster as a child. Then she heard noises coming from the tower, and the boy blinked, but did not start. The noise on the stairs coalesced into whispers.

"Are you sure this will work?" One voice asked in a posh accent.

"Course it will," another answered disdainfully. "We can't get him in bed, because he's got some way of protecting himself. Some demmed Elfish way, doubtless. So, we'll get him out on his own, and take him down in the common room." The slightly lower-pitched second voice continued. "You go down and wait. I'll wake him up on Prefect's business. When he comes down…."

"We'll stun him."

"Right." There was no mistaking the glee in either malevolent voice.

The boy wriggled out of his chair as quickly as he could without making noise. He was wearing a long night-shirt, covered in a wool dressing gown, and Hermione thought strangely of the old poem, "A Visit from St. Nick." Young Albus hid behind the chair, well out of view to anyone moving through the common room. She realised he had no wand with him. He looked distinctly nervous, but nevertheless determined. 

Another figure entered the common room. He crossed the room quietly, lurking near the portrait hole. Hermione tried to look up the tower stairs, but evidently the pensieve only showed the viewer those details which were originally remembered: the tower was simply a black void off the edge of the memory. Giving up, she approached the shadowy figure as he cautiously took up his post. He had light blond hair, and his nose and eyes proclaimed him a Malfoy, she was absolutely sure. She disliked him automatically. This must be the Jareth Malfoy the Headmaster mentioned. Details falling into place, she went back to the fire and remained close to the youthful spectre of her aged Professor. By this time, Hermione could hear sounds from the stairwell, voices drifting down as the conspirator's message was delivered and, presumably, Ryan accompanied him into the trap.

"Here? Now?" Ryan's voice, sounding very young, preceded him into the room.

"I said so, didn't I, Pelerand?" Insisted the young man who came into view now, a shiny prefect's badge gleaming against his dressing gown.

"What would my mother want with me in the middle of the night?" Ryan asked sensibly, now visible against the fire. He looked a year or two younger than the Ryan Hermione knew, but his ears elegantly poked out of his dishevelled hair, curving up into delicate points, and his face looked thinner. He looked thinner in general, almost willowy, and though still decidedly corporeal, he had a quality about him that looked fluid and catlike in its grace. He glanced from one side of the common room to the other, though it looked to Hermione more like the habitual assessing look of a student used to seeing the room full of students. She, Harry, and Ron developed the same reaction to the common room themselves: it was an instinctive gesture many students shared, not a paranoid precaution.

In any case, Ryan's gaze did not seem to perceive either of the two people hiding in nooks throughout the shadowy chamber. He let the prefect lead him through the room to the portrait hole, his mind clearly on preparing himself for his audience with his mother. Hermione noticed that he, like the young Professor Dumbledore, had no wand with him. She at least, had learned that lesson by halfway through her first year, she thought with some self-congratulation. But her moment of superiority gave way almost immediately to concern for Ryan, for she knew they planned to ambush him, and he was unarmed, and so was the only other person in the room on his side, who could do anything, anyway. 

As if he had heard her thought, the prefect turned just as he reached the portrait hole. The ancestral Malfoy also rose from his hiding place, wand in hand. Ryan drew in a sharp breath, reaching for his wand, but finding none. From her position standing next to young Albus's chair, she could see his face in the reddish light. His expression, uncomprehending at first, ran through astonishment to mixed fear and anger in a matter of seconds. It was all in his eyes, she thought. His eyes, and the set of his jaw. One hundred years or so had taught him to school his face far better: he betrayed nothing with his eyes anymore, to her knowledge. But, then as now, the determined, set jaw made him look unbearably handsome.

"Looking for this?" The prefect asked, holding up a second wand. Then, not wasting any more time, he and the strange Malfoy spoke the same spell. "_Stupefy_!" They both chanted intently, and the young Ryan crumpled to the ground with no more argument. Hermione gasped. Part of her realised that whatever danger lay ahead had been resolved years before, but she found herself caught up in the drama, anxious to find out what horrible events were in store for Ryan. "_Mobilicorpus_," the prefect incanted next, and opened the portrait hole.

"Cheeky bastard," Malfoy spat over the floating Ryan. "Doesn't even belong here with us," he growled.

"Actually thinks he's better than we are," the prefect scowled in agreement. "You've got the room set up, then?"

"Course," Malfoy scoffed. "Fifth floor armoury. Plenty of room to do what we want with him. No one will find him after." Hermione didn't like the sound of that. Nor, apparently did Albus, for he stifled a gasp. Luckily, the two older students were talking and didn't appear to hear him.

"Good. Take him," the Gryffindor ordered. "I'll make sure no one heard us."

Hermione jerked in surprise, then chided herself for forgetting that this was a memory. Everything had already happened, but she was caught up in the suspense. Though she knew both Ryan and Dumbledore would be all right, she couldn't help feeling her heart race sympathetically.

She looked down at the ashy face of the young Albus, who seemed to be holding his breath for fear of discovery, especially after his slip. But evidently the two conspirators felt they were safe in this room, for Jareth Malfoy took over the spell and guided Ryan through the portrait hole, while the prefect climbed the tower stairs to check on the boys' dormitories. Albus didn't move. He bit his lip nervously, waiting for the prefect to return and leave. He finally did, after checking the girls' tower as well. Only then did Albus straighten, stumbling back into the chair as the blood flowed back into calves and feet that had been cramped in his hiding place. He rubbed them impatiently, his mouth twisting in frustration as he stamped his slippers against the floor to bring them back to life. Hissing, he forced himself to stand, to climb the stairs to his dorm room, unaware of Hermione on his heels.

Six curtained beds stood around the tower room, identical in every other way to Hermione's or Harry's and Ron's. The boy Albus moved to the second bed from the left, going to the bedside stand. He drew out his wand and a silver hand mirror—Hermione now recognised it from the cabinet where she'd found the pensieve—and this he passed a hand over. The surface of the mirror was black, not reflective at all. "Pelerand," he said to the mirror. Nothing happened. Albus chewed his lip. "Ryan Pelerand," he repeated. The mirror remained black. Albus shook the mirror menacingly, trying again. "Ryan Pelerand," he said firmly, but then seemed to remember something. "Right—er, Jorian Jorionala," he said, mangling the pronunciation horribly. Still, the mirror did nothing. Sighing, he passed his hand over the mirror a fourth time. "Jareth Malfoy," he told it. The mirror turned bright and glowing, then went red as it showed a chamber bathed in torch light. More suits of armour than Hermione had seen in one place in the castle lined the room. Large displays of weapons decorated the walls or stood in long cases. Malfoy guided Ryan, still unconscious, into the armoury. He directed the listless form to a low case, setting Ryan down on top of the glass.

Albus tore out of the room and up three flights of the tower stairs. Hermione followed, unable to do otherwise. He burst into the dorm room on that level, where five beds were spaced out evenly around the room. "Cygnus!" He cried, going to the first bed and opening the curtains. The inhabitant sighed and turned over. "Cygnus?" He asked the second set of curtains, but the person asleep there also slept too soundly. He skipped the next bed, so Hermione guessed it must have been Ryan's. The sleeper in the fourth bed groaned loudly. "What?" Came a sleepy reply, as the bed creaked in response to the boy sitting up.

"Cygnus, it's Ryan. Potter and Malfoy—" Hermione gasped in surprise at Albus's statement. That Prefect was a Potter? An ancestor of Harry's? Other than the black hair and a slight resemblance of physique, he looked nothing like him. But she didn't have time to dwell on it, so intent was she on watching the action.

"Albus?" Cygnus identified the speaker tentatively, opening the curtains as he woke up. "What are you—"

"No time!" Albus insisted. "Look!" He thrust the mirror into Cygnus's hands. "They're in the fifth floor armoury. Do you know how to get there?"

"Yes," Cygnus said, waking. Hermione barely had time to catch a glimpse of his dark hair before he was out of bed and throwing on a dressing gown. "Perseus, Meningus, Geoff!" He called sharply, shaking their shoulders. "Come on, chaps, up!"

He succeeded in waking one of the three, but the other two refused to return to consciousness. "Oh, sod it, come on, Dumbledore!" Cygnus cried, dragging the sleepy student along behind them. Hermione thought Cygnus reminded her of someone, but couldn't say who. He was impulsive, like Ron, but that wasn't it. She ran to keep them in sight.

They ran down the steps of the tower, filling the third student in as they went. "The armoury?" Said the third, whose name apparently was called Geoffrey. "That's outside the tower. Think what Gulch will do if he catches us."

"Geoff," Cygnus said, pushing open the portrait hole and whispering, "That's not half what Malfoy must intend for Ryan. You know they hate him. And Potter—all that pureblood nonsense. Think what might happen if we don't go!" He hissed urgently.

Albus watched the mirror with deep concentration. "They've got a knife," he reported, unable to keep his voice calm. 

"Geoff, come on!" Cygnus urged again. "If nothing else, we can say we're looking for a teacher—it's true enough," he reasoned.

"Yeah, all right," Geoff allowed finally, and they crawled through the portrait hole. 

Hermione didn't have time to get through, but it didn't seem to matter. The edges of her vision dissolved as if they were made of smoke. Everything was fading; she could see only her own body—all else was swirling darkness….

And then, the outline of a Hogwarts corridor returned. Hermione saw Cygnus, Albus, and Geoff slide a quill between a closed door and its frame, easing the latch open the way a modern Muggle might use a credit card. They began to open the door, but it creaked.

"Geoff, conjure some oil," Cygnus whispered. In the lighted corridor, Hermione took another look at Cygnus, trying to think who at school he reminded her of. He had black hair, trimmed very neatly, with a deep widow's peak at the top. His nose was neither too long nor too wide, and straight. He wasn't too tall, yet, but he looked like he hadn't quite finished growing. He had the frame of a beater, though it was hard to see how muscular he might be under the dressing gown and night-shirt he wore. She simply couldn't place him, though she felt she knew someone….

"I'm no good at conjuration," Geoff warned, but he pointed his wand at the hinges anyway. "_Petrolium_!" He hissed at it. The hinges grew black and slick.

"Oil, Bramdon, not tar!" Cygnus admonished in exasperation.

"Sorry," Geoff muttered, but the door no longer signalled their entry as it swung inward silently. Hermione looked beyond the three students into a cavernous hall filled with armour and weapons. Banners with coats of arms, ranging from simple, geometric divisions to complex, elaborately marshalled fields, hung about the room near the vaulted ceiling. They could hear conversation in the large chamber. It reverberated, its nature disguised by the echo in the cathedral-like room. 

"They're chanting," Albus said darkly to Cygnus. He held out the mirror. It showed Jareth, his eyes glittering in the light of the single candle which flickered at the other end of the hall. Cygnus looked up at the scene with his own eyes. Jareth raised his arm, and the candle caught the glint of the knife as he brought it down. Hermione covered her ears, anticipating a scream.

It never came. Remembering that she was invisible, she strode down the long room to where Malfoy and the prefect whom Albus had named Potter, stood with a third boy in Gryffindor robes and a prefect's badge. The knife in Jareth's hand had blood on its tip. Ryan lay on a glass case, a bowl levitating under his arm. A stream of blood ran out of a cross-wise cut in the crook of his elbow, a rivulet running down his forearm where Jareth had cut down in a second, lengthwise gash. The third boy held an ancient looking book, out of which he read aloud in a singsong voice.

"Says we're to distil the blood with a drop or two of mermaids' tears, mixed with some clarified extract of Mooncalf dung, stirring only with a clear crystal rod, until the blood runs clear. Damn nuisance," the student then commented, closing the book over his finger to hold the place. "Don't you just put some wherever you want to enhance your senses?"

"No, this is for the divining crystal," Prefect Potter said testily. "Here, Malfoy. Mermaids' tears."

Malfoy dipped a chalice into the bowl of blood, letting it drip down the sides as he brought it over Ryan's unconscious body. He took the phial of tears from Potter and uncorked it, letting it drip slowly into the cup. Then he handed it back to him, and the prefect stopped up the bottle and put it away. They added the clear liquid extract next. "Potter, got a crystal rod?" He asked.

"No. Mullet, where's the rod?" Potter asked the third boy. Mullet set the book down, open, on the case and fished in a bag for his supplies.

On the opposite end of the hall, Cygnus, Albus, and Geoff planned their rescue. "How are we going to get up there?" Geoff asked. "There's three of them, and three of us, but Mullet and Potter are both fifth years, and Malfoy's in sixth form. They know way more counterspells than we do."

"Stay here," Albus said, his vision attracted by a lump he saw lying rumpled on top of another case, outside the flickering candle's range. He crept forward on hands and knees, staying close to the display cases, until he reached the one with the fabric on it. One pat of its silky folds confirmed his suspicion. An invisibility cloak. Silent as the grave, Albus lifted the cloak and scurried back with it to the others.

"Where'd they get this?" Cygnus whispered in amazement.

"Doesn't matter, put it on," Albus said shortly. "We can sneak up there if we move very quietly."

The three boys positioned the cloak around them and vanished. Hermione was reminded of how cramped Harry's cloak was when she, Ron, and Harry were all bunched underneath it, and how difficult it was to move silently when it was impossible to see each other's feet. She wondered absently if this might not be the very same cloak, Harry's legacy from his father. She walked back down to where the boys bled their sacrifice.

"Hey. I think it's working," Malfoy said as he stirred the blood. "What's next?"

"Er…" Mullet consulted the old book. "Place the rod inside a crystal ball—"

"—We haven't got one," Potter said in disgust. 

"Brilliant. Didn't you read the spell, first?" Malfoy complained in a whine much like his descendant's.

"Yes, but I though you—" Mullet began.

"Nevermind," Malfoy interrupted. "Any other uses in there?"

"Amulets… Oh—here, it says you can put a drop of undiluted blood on the tip of your wand. You can detect magic with that."

"Sod that," Malfoy said. "This whole place is magic. What the hell good is that? Anything else about divining? I'm about to fail bloody Divination and I'm not going to take it over again."

Mullet skimmed the section, turning the faded and chipped pages carefully. "Hang on… it says if you don't have a crystal ball, you can use the rod itself. Just stare very intently through it…." Malfoy began to concentrate on it, but Hermione saw Mullet look up at Potter and snigger. Curious, she sidled around them to read over his shoulder. The book gave no such instruction.

Just then, the body on the glass case groaned. The young Ryan began to wake up, but he was still disoriented from the spell. Potter and Mullet sprang forward to restrain him, but not before Cygnus, Geoff, and Albus all poked their wands out and shouted, "_Expelliarmus_!"

Mullet's wand flew out of his hand, Mullet himself tumbling backward in a shower of red sparks. A loud clatter echoed through the hall as he landed on a suit of armour. Ryan tried to sit up, but whether from blood loss or disorientation, rolled off the glass table and into the bowl of his own blood. Malfoy shouted in disgust as the blood spattered up at him, the bowl upending to stain the floor. With another groan, Ryan passed out again.

The door at the near end of the hall burst open. "What is going on in here?" Demanded a decidedly adult, angry voice.

Cygnus whipped the cloak off and stepped forward. "Professor! Potter, Mullet, and Malfoy here—"

"Silence!" The professor ordered, coming into the room. He was flanked by a Slytherin with a Head Boy badge and a scowling man with a lantern. He took the lantern from the foul-tempered man and surveyed the scene. Conjuring a stretcher, he issued a curt order to the Head Boy. "Take Mr. Pelerand to the infirmary at once, Parkinson," he said, and the Head Boy levitated Ryan onto the stretcher and withdrew, as if happy he didn't have to stay around for the tongue-lashing.

"Mr. Gulch, if you would be so kind as to collect Mr. Mullet," he continued. Gulch picked up Mullet and brought him over to the little group. "Now then," the professor continued. "Mr. Potter, explain this."

Potter took on a tone every bit as oily as Hermione had heard Draco Malfoy use with Snape. As he launched into his "explanation," Hermione had to suppress a feeling of revulsion that this sorry excuse for a Gryffindor shared even so much as a name with Harry.

"Professor Bartholomew," he said smoothly. "Pelerand was raving. I followed him down here, and brought Mullet with me. We were worried he might try to hurt himself, and you see, here, he did do." He pointed to the bowl and the blood.

"Mullet?" Bartholomew asked. Mullet confirmed Potter's story, rather dully.

"And Mr. Malfoy?" Professor Bartholomew asked, turning to the Slytherin sixth year. "Parkinson was alerted to your absence on a bed check."

"I was just coming back to the dungeons, Professor," Malfoy said haughtily, "after a bit of a midnight snack." He smiled charmingly. "I suppose I shouldn't have been out, but it's lucky I was. I heard noise coming from in here, so I came in to see what the matter was. Pelerand was cutting his own arm. These three," he pointed to the younger students, "were encouraging him. They had this book," he continued over a strangled protest from Geoff, "and they were reading about spells using Elf blood. Potter and I were just in time to stop them."

Bartholomew looked over at the three younger men. "And what do you have to say about all this?"

"Well, for one thing, sir, none of that's true," Cygnus said boldly. "Tell him, Dumbledore."

"Mr. Dumbledore?" Bartholomew said coldly.

Albus blanched a bit under the teacher's gaze. "Black's right," he said, timidly at first, but then finding his voice. "I was up late in the common room, reading, and I heard Potter and Malfoy—"

"A Slytherin in the Gryffindor common room?" Bartholomew interrupted. It was only at that moment that Hermione realised the surname Albus had assigned Cygnus: Black. Of course! He did look something like Sirius, though younger, and considerably better groomed than she had last seen the fugitive. But Cygnus had the same hair, if shorter, and the same eyes and nose. She stopped herself from comparing them further to listen to the rest of Albus's account.

"Yes, sir," Albus confirmed. "They came through, and Potter said he would tell Pelerand he was wanted elsewhere in the castle."

"Where were you?"

"I hid, sir, when I heard them coming." He smiled, embarrassed. "Another prefect had already told me I should be in bed, you see. But I was in the common room," he justified, before getting back to his original account. "Well, they came in, talking, and Malfoy hid in the shadows by the portrait hole. Potter must have woken Pelerand, because a little while later they came down. Then—" his eyes flashed with indignation— "Potter and Malfoy both ambushed Pelerand. Malfoy took him here, while Potter made sure no one had overheard them. When he left as well, I went and got Black and Bramdon. We came down here to try to stop them."

"Why not get a teacher, if that is the truth?" Bartholomew fired back at him. Hermione thought him a fair cross between Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape, though she was leaning on the Snapish side.

"Sir," Cygnus took up the narrative. "We didn't think there was time."

"Oh? Why was that?" Batholomew continued to interrogate.

"Well, sir, we were afraid they'd try to hurt him. And they had. When we arrived, Malfoy had cut Ryan's arm open. We—"

"Is this true, Mr. Malfoy?" Bartholomew asked, not looking at him.

"Certainly not, sir," Malfoy said with conviction. "They're his roommates, sir, they'd be able to lure him out like this, not me."

"But they are also his friends," Bartholomew said shrewdly. He considered a moment. "First, you will all assist Mr. Gulch here in cleaning the armoury before going to bed. Consider it the first part of your detentions."

"Detention!" Cygnus cried hotly. "They should be expelled—"

"Mr. Black," Bartholomew said icily. "I am afraid that until I can consult with Mr. Pelerand, it is your word against that of two prefects and a young noblewizard of the highest record of conduct. I am certain, Mr. Black, when you consider your own history at this school, you realise what a precarious position you occupy in your accusations. And you, Mr. Dumbledore, though your family certainly ranks as highly as the Malfoys, are very young to be starting down the rickety path of rule-breaking. I suggest you consider the company you choose to keep." Nostrils flaring, he took a cleansing breath before turning to the caretaker. "Mr. Gulch, I leave them in your charge. Please see them back to their common rooms once you are satisfied with their efforts." He fixed each of them with a stern glare before continuing. "I expect to see all of you in my office to discuss this matter further. I will notify you once I have spoken to Mr. Pelerand himself."

As Bartholomew strode out of the hall, Hermione looked to her right and saw a mature Albus Dumbledore smiling benevolently at her. "So now you know," he said kindly, and put his hand under her elbow. Hermione felt herself rising into the air; the armoury dissolved around her; for a moment, all was blackness, and then she felt as though she had done a slow-motion somersault, suddenly landing flat on her feet, in what seemed like the dazzling light of Dumbledore's office. The afternoon sun had dipped beneath his windows, but several lamps glowed cheerily in contrast to the dimness of the chamber in his memories.

"What happened?" Hermione asked, sinking into the chair opposite the Headmaster. 

Professor Dumbledore shrugged. "Not all decisions are made fairly," he said sagely, "but often they are made to avoid further conflict. Ryan corroborated my story, as it was plain and simple truth. But, to forestall a report that would have upset the Anvasse council and possibly torn apart our relations with them… Professor Bartholomew issued detentions to everyone save Ryan, and we were all sworn to silence. Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Mullet, you may imagine, were warned with the gravest of threats that further molestation of our Anvasse guests would be punished no matter what the consequences. To my knowledge, it never happened again." He sighed heavily. "Of course, within seventy years, relations were so strained that there was a rift in any event…." He looked up at her sharply. He rose and led her to the door, but to her surprise, came down the stairs with her, speaking broadly as they rode the magical spiral to its lower level.

"But you are not here to discuss history, Miss Granger," he continued with a sparkle in his eyes. "No. You came here to help prevent another mistake borne of ignorance. And in order to follow through on your excellent instincts, I fear I must ask to be excused. Rest assured that I shall do all in my power to save my—our," he corrected himself with a grateful smile, "good friend." They stepped into the hallway. "Good evening," he said cheerily, and turned toward the corridor which led to the owlery. It was only then that Hermione realised he must have written his instructions while she wandered inside the pensieve. She headed back to Gryffindor tower, eager to relate her story to Ron and Harry, and hoping that, as usual, the three of them could sort it all out together.

Ryan woke to a sunlit room decorated in gold and pink flowered wallpaper. Between the walls and the stuccoed ceiling, he wondered for a moment if he were still dreaming, and for some inexplicable reason was back in the 1970's. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he rejected it: he was awake, and Draco was asleep in the matching twin bed across from him. They were in a guest room at the safehouse, he remembered. Last night, they had been conducted to this room. Their hostess, Mrs. Baddock, apologised that with so many people in the house, they would have to share. But as they shared a dormitory all year long, neither Ryan nor Draco had any objection. Both were so tired and worn from their experience that they pulled their night clothes out of their suitcases and climbed into bed without even noticing the room. Ascribing his disorientation to the residual effects of Azkaban as well, he slipped out of the bed quietly and stretched in the space at the foot of the bed.

Halfway through his kata, he realised that Draco was watching him. He chose to ignore the boy while he finished.

"Do you do that every morning?" Draco asked without preamble when Ryan straightened, going to his suitcase and retrieving his toothbrush.

"Yes," Ryan said casually, "whenever I've got the chance."

Draco grunted his understanding. "It's very… complicated," he commented strangely.

Ryan smiled. "One gets used to it," he explained, and went into the adjoining bathroom.

He waited for Draco while the other showered and dressed. He was tempted to glance through Draco's bag, but decided against it. All too likely it had an anti-tampering charm on it or something, and he didn't really need to look for anything in particular. In truth, he was stalling. Going over the night's events, he had no desire to socialise with the three prisoners he had helped escape, nor the Death Eaters who were housed here to assist their rehabilitation. Too soon, however, Draco emerged and they ventured out in search of breakfast.

As it happened, their charges from the previous night were nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Baddock greeted them cordially and explained that the others were outside, where Draco and Ryan were to join them after eating. She invited them to the dining room, and no sooner had they taken their seats than a stack of chocolate chip pancakes appeared on each of their plates.

"They must be testing the others," Draco commented as he cut up his pancakes. "To see if they're fit to serve. Don't you think?" He looked up at Ryan for confirmation.

"Sounds right," Ryan said, aware that Azkaban must have affected him more than he anticipated: the chocolate chips were doing wonders for his constitution. "I don't know that they will be," he continued, but cut himself off as a third figure stumbled into view.

"Hey," Malcolm Baddock said sleepily as he took a seat. Malcolm, a second year student, had not been included in any of Operation Transfusion, but as he was in Slytherin and his parents were known supporters, both Ryan and Draco had exchanged words with him on occasion.

"I didn't know you'd come home for Easter," Draco said, clumsily covering up his surprise.

"Yeah," Malcolm said, scowling at the eggs, sausage, and toast that appeared on his plate. He looked over at their breakfasts not too subtly. "How come you get that?" He asked petulantly.

Ryan and Draco exchanged a look, silently consulting each other about this unexpected challenge so early in the morning. Ryan's impulse was to offer to switch, as the pancakes really were getting too sweet and the sausage looked much more fortifying, but he knew that it would appear too gallant, too accommodating for his supposedly selfish persona. So he merely shrugged. "We're guests," he said callously, and continued eating.

Malcolm reddened, but proceeded to tuck in, anyway. Ryan ate a few more bites and waited for Draco to finish. They found their way to the back of the house.

In the bright sunlight, the three released Death Eaters were trying wands on targets set up some distance away, with mixed success, under the supervision of Lucius and a few others. One of the robed figures tapped Lucius's arm, and he turned to see them approach.

"Ah," he said in a very businesslike manner. "Feeling better? Good." He gestured for them to join the little band of men and made introductions. "You remember Mulciber, Justin, and Seporah from last night," he confirmed with them first, gesturing vaguely at the three on the range. "And you've met Mr. Baddock. I'd like you to meet Mr. Burke, Draco, and this is Mr. Deeds. And of course, you must be introduced to Wormtail."

The first three men each shook Draco's hand firmly. But the fourth, when he turned, offered a shining hand of silver to grip. He was shorter than the others, with the look of someone who used to be quite portly, but had lost a great deal of weight. His skin was pale and sweaty in the sunlight, and his pale eyes looked watery, and shifted often.

"And this is Ryan Pelerand, gentlemen," Lucius went on. "Ryan's family has a great deal of influence on the continent. And from what Ryan says, they are sympathetic to us."

Ryan fought an urge to knock Wormtail's hand away. The silver looked sinister and almost reeked of dark magic. But instead of opening his mouth to retch from the revulsion he felt, he curled his lips into a supercilious and haughty sneer. 

"Pleased to meet you," he said, consciously imitating the attitude Lucius himself used when encountering someone he disliked.

Baddock began asking Draco questions about life at Hogwarts. Draco answered as if Christmas was far from the first time he'd conversed with Baddock. At Ryan's politely lost expression, Lucius filled in the missing information.

"Aristotle and I were at school together," he explained to Ryan convivially. "He's practically Draco's uncle."

Ryan was about to comment when one of the others directed a remark to him.

"Lucius has mentioned you in connection to his son," Deeds commented as they shook hands. "Transfer students are very rare, are they not?" He asked with palpable suspicion.

"Ryan's case is rather special, Fergus," Lucius answered casually. "He's the sort we want, I assure you," he continued with an impatient wave of his hand. "Draco identified him himself," Lucius went on, deflecting the conversation back onto his son.

For another few minutes they talked to Draco, centring their attention on him, but Ryan noticed Wormtail and Lucius move away from the group and watch the three wizards aiming curses at their targets. They spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones, their lips barely moving, their postures closed off from the others. Without moving or turning toward them, Ryan tuned out the praises of Baddock, Burke, and Deeds to eavesdrop.

"Will they be ready?" Wormtail asked, sounding vaguely nervous.

Lucius glanced over Wormtail's shoulder before answering. "Seporah has survived the best. She is the most focused. Justin… possibly. She'll help him, certainly. It's still very soon." It was difficult to tell, from the distance, and Ryan couldn't see his face, but his tone was tinged with regret or sadness. 

"And Mulciber?" Wormtail pressed.

Lucius shook his head. "I don't think so. He's got a few spells, but nowhere near the range he had before. He was too far gone before the Dark Mark burned." Again, Ryan thought he heard the undertone of loss in Lucius's voice. 

Wormtail sighed. "Damn. I hoped, with that intelligence from Black, that a little obsession would clear their minds for them, counteract the Dementors. But if he'd truly gone insane…." Ryan had a flash of inspiration, remembering the way Lucius treated the Lestranges the previous night. He understood the nature of the delay, the reason the Death Eaters waited so long to remove their people from Azkaban. But their plan seemed to have backfired—or at least, it did not produce the hoped for results. And a useless Death Eater could only mean one thing….

"He's controllable," Lucius clarified. "He's still committed. He'll do as we tell him. But he may not be…reliable on his own. He'll have to be supervised."

"Perhaps. Our lord has many uses for willing servants." Wormtail smiled viciously, cruelly. Lucius nodded once, curtly, in comprehension, and they returned to the group.

Ryan returned his attention to Burke just in time to answer a question about the places he'd travelled. 

"All over," Ryan said with a shrug. "The Netherlands, of course, and all over the continent. Russia, Egypt, South Africa. I was in Australia two years ago on a holiday. Japan." He affected to bite his lip while thinking. "But…I prefer England," he concluded, intimating a little prejudice as a way of endearing himself.

The adults laughed indulgently, and Lucius clapped Draco on one shoulder paternally. "We should get back to the Manor to prepare," he told the assembly. Though neither Draco nor Ryan knew precisely what he meant, the others seemed to understand. "Ari, You'll be responsible for bringing them in time?" He asked Baddock pointedly.

"Yes, of course," Baddock said with some bluster. "Wednesday, then? Or earlier?"

"Wednesday should be fine," Lucius assessed after a moment, during which Ryan was certain he was calculating the health and well-being of their charges. How much better could an extra day or two make the former inmates? Lucius turned again to Wormtail. "You know where to find me, if His orders change."

Wormtail simply nodded. Lucius bowed to them all ever so slightly. Ryan and Draco emulated him, and they walked back around to the front of the house. The magical car was parked in front, and the chauffeur was just closing the boot on their luggage.

"Take them back to the Manor," Lucius ordered the chauffeur with no other acknowledgement of the man's existence. He smiled, somewhat benevolently, at the two young men. "I suggest you get a little more rest over the next few days. And practice. I've left a book in the library for you: the spells are marked. You'll need them. Draco, tell your mother I'll be home in a few hours. I've preparations to make for Wednesday night."

He waited until they climbed inside to Apparate.

Ryan pretended to nap on the way home. The Manor must have been clear on the opposite side of England, from the length of the journey. But he wanted the time to think. So Wormtail must be the Pettigrew Albus mentioned, and he was the Death Eaters' source of information for everything from the tunnel under the Shrieking Shack to the theory that a strong obsession could negate the effects of Dementors. What powers did the ominous silver hand have? It was superbly strong; he could tell that Wormtail was handling him gingerly when he gripped to shake hands. Limbs could not be replaced so easily, he knew. Not even by Anvasse magic. It made him uneasy. And what did they plan for Mulciber, if he couldn't regain enough cognisance to be trusted? Something was planned for Wednesday—something for which they wanted as full a complement of brethren as possible. It wasn't everyone, he knew that much. Many of their Transfusion recruits had no knowledge of the meeting over this holiday. Wednesday… he mused. It would be 3rd April. No important conjunctions that he knew of. What ritual was so important? Or was there a more mundane explanation?

The car slowed, rocking them to a stop. Ryan opened his eyes to Draco watching him with an odd smile.

"Still tired?" Draco asked in a friendly tone.

Ryan shrugged. "Not so much now. You?" He knew Draco had napped at least part of the way; he could tell from the boy's even breathing.

"It's better now that we're away from those creatures," Draco admitted with uncharacteristic candour. They clambered out of the car and up the stairs to the front door of Malfoy Manor. 

Draco suggested a ride around the grounds later that day, after glancing at the spells Lucius picked out and promising to practice them. Lucius still had not returned, and the boy clearly wished to find distraction to ease his nervous energy. Ryan agreed, but was aware as they walked to the stables that Draco was watching him, much as he had during his morning kata.

"What?" He asked casually, hiding a little worry. What did Draco suspect?

"Nothing," Draco said with a shake of his head. But he flushed a little and looked away after that.

When they rode a little distance into the woods on the western side of the grounds, Ryan sensed it again.

"Draco?" He asked again, feeling strangely discomfited under the blond's appraising stare. "Have I sprouted horns or something?" He tried to sound light, leaving unvoiced his real fear, 'or ears?'

Draco's eyes flicked forward to his horse. He seemed a little embarrassed. "No," he said, somewhat derisively.

"Well, then, what is it?" Ryan demanded, confused by Draco's sudden attentiveness.

The junior Death Eater sighed. "It's just… You're always so capable. Even Father's noticed." His tone darkened, changing from admiration to a bit of resentment. "He says I could do worse than emulate you."

"Oh." Ryan said, careful to mask the sympathy he felt. He wondered whether Lucius put undue pressure on the boy, suspected it was so, but was unprepared for Draco's admission of weakness.

"He's right, isn't he?" Draco asked. "I should be more like you."

Ryan shrugged, riding in silence for a moment. "Why?" He asked finally, unable to tell Draco what he wanted to say about Lucius.

"Well, our backgrounds…and the cause…and the family honour…all of it." Draco's tone, like his reasoning, was vague and half-formed. It seemed to Ryan that he wanted validation, wanted Ryan to reassure him that he was a credit to the Malfoy name, or else to impart some secret that would make it easy to please his father once and for all. But Ryan had no idea how to talk to him without putting himself even higher in Draco's estimation, even more inaccessible, or worse yet, putting himself in danger of discovery. How could he discount over a century's experience and still offer it to a teenager? He went the other way, making himself indignant.

"Hey, listen, if you think I'm going to screw up to make you look good," he began.

"No," Draco cut him off. "That's not what I mean…." He blushed again, investigating the trees and the park around them. "I just thought…maybe you could show me something to impress my father…like that routine you do in the mornings. Something to show him I'm not…." He trailed off, embarrassed to reveal any more family secrets.

Ryan instinctively understood. Families such as the Malfoys never spoke to outsiders about shortcomings. Had he been Crabbe, or Goyle, or even Pansy, back when they dated, Draco could never have let his guard down so low. But because in Ryan he sensed kindred, confessions were permissible, if extremely difficult.

"I thought you handled Azkaban very well," he offered, truthfully expressing his assessment of Draco among the Dementors. "Your father seemed pleased to me," he said. They turned their horses to circle back. They kept the ride short, as Draco rarely rode at all and Ryan had not been on horseback for over eight months. Already, he could feel the lack of exercise through his calves and hips.

"Yeah, but… I was only doing what he asked. You take charge. You initiate." Draco glared at him sullenly. "Everyone likes you."

Ryan said nothing. Birds chattered to one another in the woods around them, but he waited for Draco to find words to express what he really wanted from him.

Draco reined in and brought his horse to a stop. "How do you do it?" He asked, exasperated.

'I'm ten times your age,' Ryan thought. 'I've learned to get on with people.' He said nothing.

"Pansy…she latched on to me from the start," Draco said, as if explaining away her attraction. "When you're rich, pureblood, and in Slytherin, the options are limited. When she put her claws into Greg…." He shrugged. "Good riddance. I barely noticed." He paused.

"Why is that?" Ryan supplied, sensing his role as the straight man now to Draco's monologue.

Draco shrugged again. "I guess I had more important things to think about," he commented cryptically. He flicked the reins and moved forward again. They rode back in silence.

He didn't speak again until they reached the stables. As they tethered the horses and left them for the house-elves to tend, Draco drew breath. "You know what I think it is? I think you know when to be quiet, and just listen. Most people don't." He let the comment sit there for a moment, then changed the subject abruptly. "So, what's your girlfriend like?"

It was an unexpected question and one Ryan had not prepared to answer. "Mal?" He frowned, his voice rising a little. He had no idea what to say without making it clear that theirs was no school yard relationship.

Draco mistook his pause. "She is real, though, isn't she?" He said with a wry smile. "I was beginning to wonder. You almost never write to her."

"I generally wait until I'm alone," Ryan said dryly.

"I just figured with all those girls," Draco went on, ignoring him, "that it'd be a convenient excuse." He fixed on a point over Ryan's shoulder. "That is, if you wanted them to leave you alone."

Ryan stared at Draco for a moment before comprehension struck him—or at least he thought so. "Draco…are you trying to ask me…if I'm gay?"

Draco turned bright red, but he blustered a refusal. "NO!… No…I…. I mean—well, _are_ you?" He asked finally.

Ryan laughed. "No. 'Fraid not." He wondered whether Draco's question might be a mask—an invitation for him to ask in return. He really didn't care to know. It was none of his business if Draco wanted to explore. "Were you worried about it for some reason?" He asked instead, carefully choosing words that would drive the topic away.

"No…no, of course not," Draco said with bravado. "I just wondered. Forget I said anything."

"Okay," Ryan said, making no effort to disguise his relief. He was oddly reminded of a similar conversation he'd had with his young half-brother, when Nelian asked for advice about approaching a male friend of Ryan's. He couldn't tell whether Draco was really relieved, or hiding a disappointment, but he certainly wasn't going to pursue it further. "Shall we go back?" He asked. Draco agreed readily enough, so Ryan assumed he was just as happy to drop the whole matter.

Lucius was still not back when they returned, nor was he at supper a few hours later. Monday morning, however, he was already at breakfast when Ryan and Draco wandered down. Lucius sat in his customary chair at the head of the table, immersed in the _Daily Prophet_. A quill scribbled on a pad next to him every so often. He looked up when they took their seats, but said nothing. Narcissa came in and they kissed briefly, looking impossibly domestic.

"Who arrives today?" She asked with mild interest as she dished up her food.

Lucius answered without really looking up from the paper. "Avery, Naigle, Nott, and Crabbe."

Narcissa seemed to take this information in stride. "You'll be using the east gardens?" She asked, but it sounded more like a confirmation. "I've had the grounds elves clearing it up for your use." Lucius simply grunted. Her focus changed to the two younger men.

"All prepared for the O.W.L.s?" She asked pleasantly.

"More than prepared," Draco assured her with a groan. "I'm sick of them, already."

"And you, Ryan?" She smiled indulgently at him, maternally, but with a glint in her eye suggestive of Potiphar's wife.

"I'm pretty confident," Ryan admitted smugly, ignoring her leer. He concentrated instead on keeping his persona in check, though he was just as happy the exams didn't really matter to him in the slightest, beyond passing to stay in Draco's class.

Lucius sighed, folded the paper, and rose. "I've some work to attend," he announced. "Draco, if you're so certain that your revision for the O.W.L.s is adequate, you can show me whether you've learned—"

Before he could finish his sentence or the others could rise from the table, a silver salver with a message appeared at Lucius's place. As Lucius picked it up and broke the seal (black, Ryan noticed, but he couldn't catch the shape), they heard a small commotion outside in the foyer.

Parchment in hand, Lucius left to investigate. The look he shot Narcissa clearly communicated a protective streak, as if to say that he would handle everything and to keep the boys out of the way. Ryan watched him exit, remarking to himself that it was easy to see why Draco could be intimidated by the immense capability of his father. Lucius valued control, of the self and one's environment, but Draco had not yet mastered those skills. It was a huge expectation for a teen to live up to, and no wonder it daunted him.

A few seconds later, Lucius came back in. Little about his manner had changed, but to an eye practised at observing human behaviour, he looked slightly agitated.

"Everything's all right," he said first to Narcissa. "I have to go. We should be back in an hour or two." He smiled coldly. "They've found him."

That seemed enough explanation for Narcissa. "Go," she said, receiving a rough kiss before he turned on his heel, shouting for a house-elf in his haste.

When he returned, a couple hours later as he predicted, he was in the company of a number of Death Eaters, including Wormtail. They held a suspiciously man-sized bundle which they brought through the service entrance. Draco, who with Ryan was in the sitting room, watched them wrestle the bundle down the narrow staircase.

"Come on!" Draco said immediately, setting down his book. "We can find out what's happening."

Ryan agreed without hesitation. It was risky, to sneak down to the dungeons to spy, but it was after all what he was there to do. If Draco wanted to help him, well, the boy knew the bowels of the manor better than Ryan did, and could presumably keep them from detection.

They descended the steep stairwell into the wine cellar. Draco listened for a moment at a particular cask, then pulled it aside to reveal a passageway to the dungeons. They sneaked through the dripping, damp earthen halls, lit only dimly by torch light, until they heard voices. Draco gestured to the left and they clambered into an adjacent cell. 

"Did you think you'd escape our lord's justice, Igor?" They heard one of the men ask.

"I…I do not know what you mean," answered a deep voice with a heavy, East European accent. 

"Of course not, Igor. You planned to return to us all along, didn't you?" The first voice said.

"There… there is no point in resisting our master," the deeply accented voice said without conviction.

"Correct." Draco's breath caught at the sound of his father's voice. "Trent, Snape prepared several potions for us to use even if he couldn't join us when we needed them. I believe there should be a batch of polyjuice just waiting for a final ingredient."

Ryan pulled Draco further into the shadows as the Death Eater passed them on his errand.

"If there is no point resisting, Igor, where exactly did you think you could run?" Lucius said in an icily calm voice as the interrogation started.

"I was not running!" Igor insisted, though his protestation was wholly unconvincing.

"Draco," Ryan whispered. "We should go back upstairs." He suspected the scene would grow far worse. He only hoped Lucius would not decide they should be present, and send someone looking for them.

"I want to hear," Draco insisted. "It must be Karkaroff—don't you want to see what they do to him?"

"Yes, but if they look for us…." Ryan said as quietly as he could.

They didn't get a chance to leave, though, because they heard more footsteps coming toward them. Trent returned with the potions, but as he passed their hiding place, Draco and Ryan could see others with him. Burke had arrived, as had Baddock with Mulciber. Ryan frowned at this change of plans, and waited to find out what it meant.

"Ah, good. Mulciber, you remember our old friend, Karkaroff?" They heard Lucius say.

"How could I forget the traitor who named so many of us in order to go free?" Mulciber's reedy, unbalanced voice drifted into their cell with a cackle. "_Crucio_!" He shouted without warning.

Karkaroff screamed. Ryan watched Draco, who bit his lips impatiently.

"Mulciber!" A high, thin voice called. "That's no way to treat a guest." Ryan guessed this was Wormtail, though he had never heard Trent speak that he recalled. The screaming ceased.

"We will learn everything we wish to know, Igor," Lucius said coldly. "But all in time. For now, we have a certain use in mind for you." He fell silent.

For a moment, there was no noise in the cell with the prisoner. Then they heard him begin to beg for mercy, whimper, and cry out. Ryan and Draco could only imagine what was happening when they heard him scream in pain.

"Into the potion," Lucius said distinctly. They heard a small "plop" and then a fizzing noise like soda.

"Now, then, Menelaus," Wormtail said, "are you ready to serve your master?"

"It is my greatest honour," Mulciber said with rapt conviction.

"Excellent. See, Igor, how easy it is to know what is right?" Wormtail continued. They heard the sound of metal thudding against skin. A second later, there was the dull sound and accompanying grunt of someone landing on damp earth. "Menelaus, we have a particular mission for you. You must drink this potion and Apparate to this location." A faint crunching sound of parchment echoed through the dungeon. "We want you to create as much havoc as possible—especially against the targets you will find there. Our operatives in the Ministry will meet you to help you escape."

Ryan could hear the falsehood in Wormtail's voice, but Mulciber, mad as he was, did not detect it. On the other hand, Ryan reasoned, he had added intelligence from hearing Wormtail's conversation with Lucius at the Baddock house. He could have laid odds that Mulciber would never survive this mission, especially looking like Karkaroff. For he was certain the potion they referred to was the polyjuice Trent had fetched.

Draco listened, an expression of delight on his face, like a child who has discovered where his parents are hiding his birthday presents. Ryan fought an irrational urge to clamp the boy's mouth shut, so afraid was he for a moment that Draco would reveal their presence. But the young wizard also seemed to realise that now was not the time to pop out of hiding, and remained silent. They heard Mulciber drink; heard Wormtail say, "Now go, quickly;" then watched as two people walked by. One was Mr. Burke, and the other was tall and thin, with short white hair and a curled goatee that did not entirely hide his rather weak chin.

"Now, then, Igor," Lucius took up the narrative. "In the next hour, the entire wizarding world will know you for the traitor you are. You will be seen wantonly destroying Mudbloods in broad daylight, on a busy street frequented by half-breeds as well as wizards, all the while shouting your loyalty to the Dark Lord. Sadly, you won't survive the encounter with the Ministry officials. And since they will believe you dead, no one will look for you."

"We can question you as long as it takes," a third voice said, relishing the prospect.

"I'll tell you anything you wish to know," Karkaroff reasoned, his voice quavering.

"Oh, Igor, Igor, Igor," the third voice said with false warmth. "That takes all the fun out of it."

The dungeon hallway burst alive in white light. Karkaroff screamed.

"Draco," Ryan whispered urgently, "we should leave, now." He slowly unfolded himself from the shadows, waiting for the next break in light bursts.

"I want to—"

"Draco, trust me, this is not good. If they wanted us here, we'd have been invited."

"But—"

Someone fired another spell in the next room. Karkaroff screamed again. The smell of cordite and burning flesh hit their nostrils and Draco turned faintly green. "I think you're right," he said shortly, and they retreated upstairs.

They made it up the steps and outside, Ryan ordering Draco to take deep breaths. Once the fresh air filled Draco's lungs, he fought off the urge to vomit. Ryan held his shoulders, a staying hand against Draco's forehead, just in case, his own breathing a little deeper than usual.

"How well do you know him?" Draco asked Ryan finally.

"Know who?" Ryan said, frowning.

"Karkaroff. You said he was Headmaster while you were at Durmstrang. How well do you know him?"

"Not too well," Ryan covered, remembering in a rush the story he and Dumbledore concocted about his past. "He was already Headmaster, so I only saw him when I was in serious trouble. Shifty git," he said uncharitably. "I always suspected there was something wrong with him." He felt his heart skip as he realised the possible implications to his cover story, but reasoned that they would hardly bother to question Karkaroff about former students.

Draco grinned. "Father asked me a lot of questions about him last year. He ran away from the school when he felt the Dark Mark burn, Father said. They've been looking for him ever since."

"Well, they certainly found him," Ryan said. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Draco nodded gratefully, but then sobered again. "Do you think they'll really kill Mulciber? Or will they help him escape, and make it look like he's dead?"

Ryan shrugged. He couldn't tell Draco what he'd overheard at the safehouse. "Mulciber still seems pretty insane to me," he assessed truthfully. "I don't know how many missions like that they could expect him to perform."

"But—he's as loyal as you or me," Draco argued.

"Yes, but he's also a weak link," Ryan said coldly. "They'll kill him, I bet." He allowed his prediction to sound bloodthirsty. "They've got better servants to help out, anyway," he offered, indicating themselves to mitigate Draco's scowl.

It worked. "I guess you're right," Draco allowed. They agreed to go back indoors before they were missed. If questioned, they could say they had been walking in the garden.

Several hours later, Lucius, Trent, Baddock, and a few others emerged from the dungeons. More Death Eaters had arrived in the meantime, and Lucius invited them all into the drawing room after dinner (at a hastily expanded dining table) for a drink to toast their success. Evidently, the capture of Karkaroff changed all their plans, since more people were there than Lucius indicated at breakfast.

Ryan had taken advantage of the few hours that afternoon, before too many others arrived, to arm himself with his dagger and make ready to escape if necessary. He assured himself that his background would be far from Lucius's mind while questioning Karkaroff, but he dared not assume. He knew better than to try to get to Karkaroff's cell to include the prisoner in his fabrication. He simply had no choice but to wait, and hope.

Some of the Death Eaters clutched copies of the _Evening Prophet_ , which boasted a full-page photo of the slaughter on Cairn Alley. They passed the article around for everyone to read.

"_Ministry Officials arrived too late to save ten half-blood wizards on Cairn Alley this morning_," the article read, "_but were able to put an end to the destruction caused by Igor Karkaroff, lately Headmaster of Durmstrang. Karkaroff, who has been missing since June, 1995. Mr. Karkaroff appeared suddenly on the street and began blasting wizards around him, according to witnesses who survived the attack. 'Karkaroff proved highly resourceful,' said Ministry responder Harmon Ness in an interview after the scene. 'He kept Disapparating and Apparating to avoid being hit by spells. We finally had to concentrate our efforts.'_

_"Witnesses report that he was extolling the virtues of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named during the entire attack, promising death and destruction for all those who sympathise with Muggle-born wizards. Through the heroic efforts of the Ministry, he was subdued, but was, unfortunately, killed before Ministry officials could apprehend him. Mr. Ness of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and members of his team suffered only minor injury, and were released within hours by St. Mungo's staff._

_"Igor Karkaroff was suspected of Death Eater activity during He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's rise to power, but was cleared of charges after interrogation by the Ministry. He returned to his native Estonia, and several years later was named Headmaster of Durmstrang school. Karkaroff officiated last year's Triwizard Tournament, held at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but disappeared shortly after that event's tragic final task. He had not been seen or heard from since, until today. _

_"In the absence of an extradition agreement for Mr. Karkaroff, _ Prophet _reporters asked the Department for International Magical Co-operation whether the Euro-Russian Ministry might hold Britain accountable for Karkaroff's death. We were told only by the Acting Head of Department's secretary, Mr. Percival Weasley, that Acting Head Zifron would issue a statement tomorrow. _"

"Most of you realise that it was not, of course, Igor himself in Cairn Alley today," Lucius announced triumphantly, "but one of our own who served an important, vital role in our plans to reassert our cause. Raise your glasses, my friends, to our noble, fallen companion: Menelaus Mulciber."

They chorused the dead Death Eater's name with reverence, tossing back their drinks as if he had been lost in a glorious battle, rather than sent on a kamikaze mission.

"However, we have cause to celebrate," Lucius went on. "As you know, we are gathering here in the next few days to conduct a ritual of the utmost importance to our lord and his ultimate goal. Wednesday is the first night of an historic double full moon, a celestial condition necessary for our efforts, and we have procured the final ingredient for that ceremony. And it was accompanied by none other than the traitor, Igor Karkaroff."

The men emitted a ragged cheer.

"Igor provides us, in fact, with two essential parts of our formula," Lucius continued, and several of the men laughed. "In addition to information which I am sure he will be…happy to provide." More laughter. "Please, enjoy my hospitality tonight, and we will prepare for our master's arrival tomorrow."

They broke apart into small groups, drinking and talking like any cocktail party. Draco and Ryan spotted Vincent Crabbe and Malcolm Avery, who joined them. Lucius turned up among them shortly afterward and asked Draco to step out with him briefly.

"What's that about?" Crabbe asked when father and son left the room.

"Probably wants to have a chat, is all," Ryan said glibly, though he wondered. He knew Lucius had every right to talk to his own son, but he assumed the timing had more purpose than just to offer advice or talk from the shoulder. He suspected Lucius wanted to recap everything Draco had observed about Karkaroff during the boy's fourth year, or perhaps show him his progress on the spells he told him to learn. And since they hadn't really had a chance to catch up alone, he suspected Lucius also wanted Draco to report more fully on his activities since his last visit home.

Draco returned about an hour later. Ryan glanced at the clock, seeing that it grew very late indeed. It was nearing midnight and there was no sign of anyone retiring soon.

The Naigles, Notts, and a woman by the name of Crisp all arrived just as Draco came back. Emma and Stelmaria joined the group of student Death Eaters.

"Where's your father?" Ryan asked Draco conversationally.

The pale teen shrugged. "He went downstairs again," Draco said, filling the ladies in quickly as to the good news about the captured traitor. "He wanted to check something, I think."

Ryan thought Draco seemed anxious. He kept glancing at the parlour door as if expecting Lucius back any moment. "Emma, Stelmaria, would either of you like a drink?" Ryan offered gallantly.

"Ooh—yes," Emma giggled. "Um… a Bloody Mary?" She ordered eagerly. Stelmaria asked for a Cabernet.

Ryan went around the rest of the circle as well, taking orders. "Draco, care to help me?" He asked pointedly.

Draco nodded gratefully. "Of course," he agreed, and the two moved away from the little group.

"Something wrong?" Ryan said quietly as they crossed to the bar.

"I'm…not sure," Draco answered.

"What is it?" Ryan frowned at him. He lined up glasses and began to fix the drinks.

Draco caught his lip between his teeth, worrying it. "I think…." He shrugged. "It's probably nothing." He dismissed his misgivings with a wrinkled nose and shaking head.

"What's nothing?" Ryan pressed, trying to sound light, but with a growing dread.

"Well…I didn't tell you because I didn't think anything of it at the time, but Father seemed to find it signifi—"

"Draco, what is it?" Ryan insisted, not needing to hide his exasperation.

"I'm not sure," Draco repeated. "It kind of depends. What exactly are the Seven Houses?"

Ryan's fingers slipped on the glass as he poured Vincent's drink, but he caught himself before spilling. "Where did you hear that name?" He asked with practised calm, though he could feel his heart begin to race. How much time did he have before Lucius figured it out?

"Granger said something about them—in relation to you—that night when I lost the cloak." He explained. "I figured it was some Swedish thing she was on about. I didn't even really remember it until Father asked me tonight."

"What did he ask?" Ryan tried to make it sound a reasonable question. He glanced over at the parlour windows, trying to look casual about it, but exploring avenues to escape if necessary.

"Just the usual," Draco said. "Whether I'd heard anything useful, whether anyone had said something that could be valuable information, so on. He sometimes helps me remember with spells."

Under other circumstances, Ryan would have probed more deeply into the intricacies of Lucius's spellwork, but a sense of danger propelled him back to the central topic.

"So, you told your father everything you overheard…." He prompted.

"Of course. I didn't even realise _what_ I'd heard until he cast Hypnopense on me. But Granger clearly said that the Pelerand family was in one of the Seven Houses. She said it was outside of wizarding society, though, so like I said, I thought that was just some random Swedish dynasty or something."

"But your father said otherwise?" Ryan concluded. 'Tell me, Draco,' he thought. 'Come on, spill it…just tell your friend….'

"No," Draco shook his head. "He just looked sort of queer, and told me to go back to the party. He said he had to talk to Karkaroff again." They piled the glasses on a small tray to take back with them. "So, any idea what that's about?" Draco continued. 

Ryan pursed his lips. Yes, he knew exactly what it was about. The phrase triggered something in Lucius's memory—Lucius the historian, Lucius the wizarding author—and even now, he was asking Karkaroff all those questions about his students that Ryan prayed would never matter. Ryan could swear in no less than 200 languages. "I wouldn't worry about it," he told the boy with a self-deprecating smile.

"Are you sure? I mean, I know you've said your family's important, but—"

"No," Ryan assured him, falsely dismissive. "It's nothing to concern you." He wondered how he could manage to slip out, and whether he could get away. 

There was no opportunity, however he tried to work himself to the door. So it didn't surprise him when, a few minutes later, Lucius laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Ryan!" He said convivially. "Excuse us, won't you, gentlemen, ladies? There's someone I particularly want Ryan to meet. Would you accompany me?"

"Certainly, sir," Ryan supplied with equal amiability, while in his head he expressed his extreme doubt in Slovenian, Moravian, Mermish, and Centauri. There was no sense revealing himself before necessary, and he had no chance in a room filled with Death Eaters, in any event. He followed Lucius, comforted by the weight of the wand in his pocket, and his knife hilt against his back.

Lucius led him out of the drawing room and down the inlaid floors of the main hall. Ryan had to fight his instinct not to break there, while they were alone, but he aborted the idea instantly when he heard and felt two Death Eaters fall in to flank them behind. They descended the stairwell off the kitchen, into the wine cellar. Lucius moved the cask. Into the dungeons they processed, as Ryan concentrated on breathing evenly, wondering how he could survive this encounter with another Malfoy.

"Nervous?" Lucius asked paternally.

Ryan smiled insouciantly, using the persona for what he thought might be the last time. If anything could save him, perhaps his attitude would convince Lucius to discount the facts. "Because you're taking me to my old Headmaster?" He fired back. "Should I be?"

Lucius laughed politely. "When did you see Karkaroff last?"

Ryan shrugged, noting Lucius's cool demeanour. "At the end of…No, sorry, when he left with the delegation for the Triwizard Tournament," Ryan reasoned, covering his mistake with what he hoped a natural progression of thought. 'Calm down,' he told himself. 'Think! Keep thinking, keep cool. There's time, you can buy time….'

Lucius hummed a response, but said nothing more. They turned down the corridor to the cell where Igor Karkaroff lay.

He was barely recognisable from the doppelganger who walked past Ryan and Draco that afternoon. Mulciber's disguise was still a whole man, the distinguished hair unclotted with dried blood, and the robes he wore were not torn or mired. The real Karkaroff lay on the damp ground, his robes muddy, soiled, and ripped, his arms cradling a head that had been battered. His robe sleeves had slipped to his elbows, and the arms themselves were burned where he had tried to ward off the torture of that afternoon's spell work. His breath rattled in his chest, a sign, Ryan thought, of internal fractures.

Lucius unlocked the cell with his wand and swung the door open. He stepped inside and kicked Karkaroff awake.

"Igor!" He shouted, his jovial tone juxtaposed improbably with his vicious actions. "You have a visitor," he continued over Karkaroff's protests, gesturing with his wand to jerk the man into a sitting position. As he looked up and his head left the shelter of his arms, Ryan saw that the tip of his nose was missing, and unbandaged. It had dried in a black, sticky mess, leaving slits for nostrils that were open, bloody trails. With a sick insight, Ryan realised what they used to complete the polyjuice potion. From the awkward angle of his limbs, Ryan saw that the man's leg was broken, too. He added to his litany in Hawaiian, Mende, and Thai, but outwardly, he shifted his weight to one foot and crossed his arms defiantly, as if happy to see his old professor in such straits.

Karkaroff squinted painfully, unable to open his eyes completely because of the beating and burns. Ryan barely had time to be intrigued that these wizards still resorted to physical violence alongside magical torture, before Lucius circled back to him.

"See?" He continued baiting Karkaroff, and Ryan guessed, Ryan as well. He beckoned Ryan to come forward. Ryan took a small step toward the prisoner, but wary of being trapped, refrained from entering the cell completely. He hoped Lucius would interpret his hesitation as revulsion, but he couldn't afford to care.

"Don't tell me you don't remember your former student?" Lucius demanded with mock surprise. "Ryan, come a little closer, so the…Headmaster," he stressed the word disdainfully, "can remember you."

One of the two men behind Ryan pushed him inside. He stumbled and pretended to fall, seizing the one chance he could think of to save himself. He pitched forward to his knees, landing a short distance before Karkaroff. As he righted himself, he tried to catch Karkaroff's eyes, to give him a signal, any kind of communication, in the hope that Karkaroff might play along.

But Karkaroff was too absorbed in his own fear and pain and misfortune. He met Ryan's eyes, but no spark of recognition registered. He didn't even seem to notice Ryan's wilful attempts. Ryan's every minute expression, flicking his eyes up to Lucius beside him, then back at Karkaroff, his eyebrows speaking words he could not form, seemed to plead, 'Say yes. Just say yes!' But Karkaroff failed to understand.

"I do not know him," he said softly.

"No?" Lucius asked again. "Ryan Pelerand? Your disciplinary problem?"

Karkaroff coughed, and a trickle of blood escaped his mouth. It dribbled into his nearly white, curled goatee. "I have never seen this boy before," he volunteered more firmly.

A muscle twitched in Lucius's jaw, and he seemed satisfied. "Possibly that is because you have never met," he said, and snapped his fingers.

The two men seized Ryan by either arm. From the meaty size of his hands, the one on Ryan's right was Crabbe's father. The other must have been Baddock, as Goyle had not arrived yet.

"He's lying," Ryan immediately protested.

"Why would he lie, when he knows what that would mean?" Lucius countered lazily. "But if you wish me to confirm..." Lucius pointed his wand at Karkaroff and incanted the Hypnopense spell.

Karkaroff's face went slack and his eyes glazed. Lucius instructed him to think of his last three years at Durmstrang, whether any students transferred from Nördskolr, and received a negative answer. Then he asked about students who were constantly in trouble, and Ryan was not among them. Lastly, he asked for Ryan by name or face, and again, Karkaroff denied his existence. After each answer, Lucius shot a knowing look at Ryan, who grew paler by the second. He added Punjabi, Manticorish, and Japanese to his string of profanities.

"Well, unless his memory has been modified," Lucius countered, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice, "one of you is most certainly lying. And I don't think it's Igor, do you? Tell me, Pelerand," Lucius continued, as if in a school room, "what are the Seven Houses?"

Swahili, French, Atlantisian. Breathe. Ryan tried to forestall discovery one more time. It was possible he could still bluff his way out. He shrugged one shoulder to look like he was thinking. "I think it may have something to do with my family's history," he said, sounding confused. "But I don't understand why Professor Kar—"

"I knew I had heard the Pelerand name before," Lucius said, cutting off his protest about not being recognised. "I recalled seeing one of your ancestors named in a history of wizard/goblin conflicts of the eighteenth century. And I knew that the Pelerands were at Hogwarts, a long time ago." He shook his head, his tone growing bitter. "It simply never occurred to me that documents of the time took for granted names that were known not to be true wizarding families. It was only when Draco mentioned the Seven Houses that I remembered." He gestured and the other two wizards yanked Ryan to his feet. Karkaroff sat, forgotten, barely even watching the scene playing itself before him.

"Years, ago, one of my colleagues wrote a book on wizarding relations with other races. Anvasse history is far from my field of study, but he asked me to present it to a publishing firm in my holdings. I still have a copy in my library. Shall I educate you?"

He didn't wait for an answer, but flicked his wand. A book materialised in mid-air, hovering at eye level. The gold lettering on the spine read, Shadows in the Hill: Truth, Legends, and History. Ryan adopted his disdainful pose again, as if indulging Lucius's fantasy out of politeness mixed with boredom. With another wave of his wand, Lucius fluttered the pages to the reference. He recited:

"'Though the intricacies of Anvasse society are too numerous to list, indeed, one could spend a lifetime denoting the myriad relationships imaginable, the Seven Ruling Houses clearly constitute the cultural centre of Anvasse life. These Seven Houses, more loosely defined as clans comprising several families of close bloodlines, share the responsibility for leading the smaller, younger houses of less noble blood. The Houses are, in order of their inception: Galador, Sorolor, Tenalon, Nerolon, Celenor, Valanor, and Lorelon.'" 

He looked up into Ryan's face, hoping to see a hint that he was getting somewhere. Ryan returned a patient, inquisitive expression, as if he were waiting to find out where Lucius was going. "This is the interesting part," Lucius commented, and went back to quoting. 

"'Family representatives in the Council takes turns as its head, an office which long tradition still terms their High King.'" He ran his finger down, skipping ahead. Ryan's pulse rang in his ears. An idea formed in the back of his head…. But Lucius began reading again. "'At the time of writing, the Anvasse have absented themselves from formal wizarding relations for close to sixty years, and are believed gone from the world. However, our last records of the Council indicate that its leadership at the time of separation was in the hands of the Second House, currently led by the Peleranel family, often referred to as "Pelerand" in wizard relations.'"

He paused to regard Ryan's reactions again. Ryan played dumb, hoping against hope that his bluff might work.

"So, you're saying my family name sounds suspiciously like these… Anv… Anvasse things?" He asked, mispronouncing his own language.

Lucius's eyes glittered with cold fire. He snapped the book shut. "Next you will protest that your family must be descended from the Anvasse, but you aren't actually one of them," he announced, correctly guessing Ryan's next move. "But you know as well as I that Elves don't marry outside their own kind. So let us try again, Mr. Pelerand. Did you think you could deceive us indefinitely?"

Ryan set his jaw. Lucius knew. Through the glamour disguising his appearance, despite the explanations and the carefully crafted persona, thanks to Karkaroff's denial, and because of Draco's—Hermione's, poor girl—information, Lucius knew. He might not have remembered his friend's book without the clues, but it was pointless to deny it now. And yet, he couldn't give up… there was yet another possibility. He sighed and looked petulant, as if defeated.

"It was worth a try," he admitted, but quickly added protests as the two Death Eaters seized his arms again. "That's not what I mean!" He said hastily, holding up his palms to stave off any assault. "I mean…Pelerand's not my name." He tried to look abashed. "I've been lying—but not the way you think," he added, his voice rising a little in distress. "I…I'm not rich. Or powerful. My family…I don't have any, anymore. I made up the Pelerand name because I wanted people to think…." He smiled his lopsided smile. "Look, this is just a mistake. I needed a way into Hogwarts—into this organisation. I am a pureblood, really." Once he worked out the details of his story, he babbled on until Lucius silenced him with a word.

Lucius gazed deep into Ryan's eyes, eyes which Ryan made slightly shifty, but not so untrustworthy as to make Lucius think he was still lying.

"A foolish choice," Lucius said slowly. "You should have done better research. So you were never at Durmstrang, is that it?"

Ryan nodded vigorously. "Exactly. So…there's no way he'd recognise me. Look, this is all just a mistake."

"Yes, so you said before. However, that does not discount the fact that you have deceived us, and tried to play me for a fool." He came very close to Ryan's face. " If you are telling the truth, now, which I doubt." He scrutinised Ryan again, his eyes narrowing as he sized him up. "Either way, I cannot afford to take any chances." He paced the damp little cell while the other Death Eaters held their charge in place. "There is a way to find out, of course. I'm afraid I'll have to detain you until then. Call it your initiation."

Ryan laughed. He couldn't help it. "You know, Draco wondered if we'd be initiated. I don't suppose you'll lock him in the dungeon," he said, feeling waves of shock pass over him now that he had bought himself some time.

Lucius did not appear amused. He plunged his hand into Ryan's robe pocket and pulled out the spy's wand, inspecting it lightly. Then, levelling his own wand at Ryan, he intoned with perfect clarity. "_Crucio_ ."

Pain seared through him, cutting his chuckle midstream. The Death Eaters let go and he crumpled immediately, his breath coming in gasping pants as he fought the curse. Every muscle in his body cramped simultaneously, contracting as if trying to compress themselves into the tiniest space possible. It was a thousand times worse than broken bones, deep cuts, even the pain of being stabbed in the knee once. There was no use comparing it to other occasions when he'd been under it—the curse was simply the most excruciating experience ever. Each application was even worse than the preceding one, pain so maddening it was death to endure it, and death would have been a welcome relief compared to it. His eyes clamped shut of their own accord, but the visions against his lids burned in red and purple and white spots from the onslaught. 

Ryan bit his tongue trying not to scream. He had no plan not to scream—he couldn't think beyond forcing himself to breathe through the pain—but he simply didn't want to give Lucius the satisfaction. But the unanticipated bite weakened him, and once his jaw unclenched in surprise, the sound ripped forth. Lucius lifted the spell.

"That's for insolence," Lucius said glibly. At his order, the guards picked Ryan back up and frog-marched him to the next cell over. The same cell where he and Draco had eavesdropped that morning. It was still just as empty, but it seemed much smaller when he couldn't leave. The walls down here were rough-hewn rock, windowless, damp, and cold. 

"Make our guest uncomfortable," Lucius said angrily, and Crabbe and Baddock went to work while Lucius watched. A punch to the stomach, even harder than the one George landed during their detention, brought him low enough to grab the back of his robes. They tore them off indelicately, without regard for the fabric, leaving him to shiver in the damp with nothing but breeches and boots. 

"Well, well," Crabbe the elder said. "What have we here?" He kneed Ryan before he could straighten up and reached across the man's back, confiscating the dagger. He handed it back to Lucius, who inspected it for a moment, but simply nodded at his thugs. This, apparently, was the signal they awaited. As a team, they were not entirely effective, but they made up for it in brute strength. 

Ryan resisted his impulse to fight back for a moment, retaining enough composure to wonder if it would damage his hastily crafted new cover story. But by the time Crabbe moved in for a third punch, he had had enough. He fought back.

First, he bent over as if winded, waiting for Baddock to close in. At the right moment, he swung his elbow up and out, catching Baddock in a most sensitive area. Next he flowed into one of his studied and carefully practised kata, meeting Crabbe and using the man's own weight against him. But of course, there was still Lucius.

"_Impedimenta_," Lucius aimed the spell almost languidly, before Ryan could cross the threshold. Ryan's legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to the stone floor with a dull thud, smacking his hands on the stone floor. Crabbe and Baddock exacted their revenge tidily, taking advantage of Ryan's inability to rise. He warded off much of their assault, but he was at too great a disadvantage to protect himself completely. They battered him about his head and torso, bashed his knees and arms, and knocked the wind from his lungs with vicious kicks to his stomach and kidneys. Ryan felt a rib crack before they were done.

"That should do," Lucius called them off after a few minutes. "After all, there is a very slim chance he is in fact simply a foolish boy with delusions of grandeur." He locked the cell with his wand, conjured a chair outside the cell doors and sat, then levelled his wand at Ryan again. "But somehow, I don't think so." He held up the dagger in his left hand. "Few wizards actually consider any type of protection other than their wands. It's inelegant to use brute force, don't you think?" He admired the workmanship of the knife hilt. "But this is a superior weapon. I'd venture to say it was not created by Muggles." He addressed his companions, ignoring the fact that he had just insulted them. "Fetch Ollivander and bring him down here. And find Snape—we'll need him to finish up the veritaserum as soon as he arrives." He sighed, turning back to Ryan. "We've but to wait for the potions master, and then we will know the truth, either way."

He sat in silence for a moment, his wand trained on Ryan. He was smart, Ryan thought bitterly. If Lucius had gone upstairs, Ryan could chance a little wandless magic to free himself and get away. But with an armed guard…he might escape the cell, but the dungeon? And even then, the careful infiltration he'd worked so hard to create would be over. Ryan was almost as certain as Lucius that there was no way out, without losing his cover, his life, or both, but there was still a chance. A slight one, no doubt, but a chance. If he could convince them his second story were true—if Dumbledore's faith in Snape was justified—there was still a chance he could salvage the mission.

"I've heard that Elven blood is more powerful than wizard," Lucius said speculatively. "How fortunate it would be, if in addition to a hunted traitor, we could offer the Dark Lord an Elf, as well." He smiled, and the sight of it sent a chill down Ryan's spine that had nothing to do with his bare chest in the cold room. 

"An Elf?" He scoffed, covering his shiver with an outburst of scepticism. "Look at me: I'm not an Elf," he argued, allowing some of his anger to come through, justified by the beating he'd just received. 

"So you say," Lucius countered. "But of course, if you were, you'd be using a disguise spell. Though your pathetic attempts at defence do belie age or experience," he mused, and Ryan saw that he was trying to get a reaction, trying to make Ryan tip his hand. Ryan concentrated on the pain in his rib, using it to block out Lucius's baiting. "Patience, Ryan," he said in an unctuous tone. "If you're telling the truth, we'll know soon enough. You must admit you're playing a dangerous game. And really," he grinned cruelly, "it's not half so unpleasant as what some of us have been through. I'm much more forgiving than the Dark Lord, after all. Besides," he sniffed appraisingly, "you should have known we would challenge your background eventually. I can understand lying to secure a position, but once we accepted you into our circle, why didn't you come to me and admit the truth?" Lucius laid out in perfect logic the holes in Ryan's explanation. His eyes grew cold, and his tone slightly sarcastic. "After everything I have done, this is how you repay me?" He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, and Ryan sensed that he was playing a role to match Ryan's story, but that he did not believe him for a moment. "No, no," he concluded. "I'm sure you are learning a valuable lesson."

Ryan reminded himself to hang on, to continue playing the angry young man from the (now) wrong side of the tracks. He glared at Lucius, adopting the expression of a child who has been caught, rather than a man in fear for his life. 'Please,' he prayed, all the while, 'Please let there still be a chance.'

A/N: Gee, Ryan's in a bit of a fix, isn't he? Will Snape be able to help him out, or will his attempts reveal him to the Death Eaters as well? How about that Wormtail? And where _did_ Dumbledore send his owl? Can he really trust Snape? Will Justin and Seporah make the cut as well, or are they as useless as Mulciber? What will happen to Karkaroff? There's only 1 ½ chapters to go, so hang in there! I promise it won't take as long to give you the next bit, only I will also promise that I won't post it until it's ready.

Thanks as always to my Bestest, who keeps me sane throughout this process, asks the right questions to open the dam of my imagination, and reminds me of continuity I've forgotten to write down. Also a special thank you to Heidi Tandy, who came through in a pinch and beta'd on top of everything else on her plate. You're a peach.

Let's see, there's one more acknowledgement I must make. There's a scene I didn't like much in this chapter, though having written it, I admit it will make a nice contrast with something yet to come. Rhysenn, the scene is for you, as requested. All you, babe, and just 'cause I like you. Happy?

The title of Lucius's friend's book is adapted from Long Shadows: Truth, Lies, and History by Erna Paris. Its content is original, so don't get all worried I stole it from somewhere.

I don't think there's anything else derivative in this installment, except the passages on the Pensieve and Karkaroff's and Wormtail's descriptions, and you know where those originated. Keep reading!


	12. Ruination

His Majesty's Secret Service __

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretences. As a Slytherin, he befriended Draco Malfoy to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, Lucius Malfoy discovered a vital piece of information about his son's friend, revealing that he is not what he seems to be….

Lucius waited with Ryan for another ten minutes or so, casually trying spells to break any disguise Ryan might be using. Vitreus Crabbe returned with two other men in tow. One of them was clearly another guard: he was tall and built like a Muggle rubgy player. He probably made one incredibly strong beater in his day. The second, however, looked about as useful in a fight as a hummingbird in an owl post office. He was whip-thin, and very young, with bottle-thick glasses that magnified his eyes. He carried himself as if more used to a desk than a dungeon. But Ryan had long ago learned that physique had nothing to do with skill at duelling, so he waited without concealing his interest.

"Now what?" He growled insolently, not caring if it earned him a new torture. It was more in character to sulk, so sulk he did.

Lucius shot him an exasperated look. "Prometheus, have a look at this," he said without looking away from Ryan, holding out Ryan's wand.

The young man accepted the wand and began to inspect it. But immediately he made little noises of astonishment, exclaiming "hm" and "tsk" softly as he inspected the instrument.

"Yes…" he said after a moment. "Interesting…interesting," he chucked, twirling the wand experimentally in his fingers. "This isn't one of Uncle's, certainly," he said curiously, and examined the tip. "Eleven and a half inches, I'd guess, and oak, of course. See?" He pointed to the grain. "But the core…." He got out his own wand and tapped it against the handle of Ryan's tool. Nothing seemed to happen. "Curious," he said to himself. "It doesn't seem to want to reveal its core, Mr. Malfoy," he said with a tone of apology. "One moment, please," he continued politely, and tried tapping it again.

"Ah!" The young man said with a sigh of satisfaction, looking inside the wand. "Of course," he said triumphantly. "Sphinx hair. That explains why it concealed itself so well. Hm. A good wand for self-defence." He waved it with an expression of admiration. "But the workmanship! It's not Gregorovich, either," he mused, then looked sharply at the prisoner. "Who made this?" He demanded.

"Faziel," Ryan muttered darkly.

"Ah—of course!" The young man nodded. "Mustafah Faziel of Cairo—he does amazing work. Simply amazing." He handed the wand back to Lucius.

"Not a common wand, then, you'd say?" Lucius confirmed with the junior wandmaker.

"No, indeed. In fact, Faziel retired about ten years ago."

"Did he?" Lucius snorted significantly. "And did he have a protégé?"

"A witch named Sabac," the young wizard supplied. Lucius rounded on Ryan.

"Do you still claim this is Faziel's work?" He asked shrewdly.

"Yes," Ryan insisted defiantly. "I know it's old—I got it as a present on holiday in Egypt. My mum homeschooled me—I started early."

"Ah," Lucius said indulgently. He turned to the three men on his side of the cell bars. "Stay here and watch him. Don't let him try anything—he may do wandless magic. Ollivander, I'm counting on you to keep him subdued. Go ahead and try to break his disguise spell—I've already tried _Finite Incantatem_ and _Priori Formus_ to no effect. I'm going back up to the library." He left the dampness and the dark, Ryan's wand in his hand.

Ryan waited. In between suffering the effects of the spells they cast to amuse themselves, he counted minutes, hoping for Snape's arrival, praying the man was indeed as loyal to Dumbledore as his friend believed, and as clever as Dumbledore reported. Time stood on end, stretched and mutated into something he loathed and yet treasured, for each moment he lived, he had a chance to convince them he was no spy. He shivered as the air got colder and the night wore on. A few hours later, fresh guards arrived, among them, Nott and Avery. They were only too happy to try spells on Ryan per Ollivander's instructions, though he doubted even a reasonable wizard could connect the Body Bind with disguise spells.

Lucius returned finally, and with him, Snape, looking naturally shocked, but just as sour as usual. By Ryan's tally, it was several hours since the guard changed. It might even be daylight already. But since there was no change of light in the dungeon, it was hard to say for certain.

"Let's get this test over with, Lucius," Snape said irritably. "I'm not wasting Veritaserum on him if he's what he says he is."

"Oh, I think I can safely say he is not. But now I know how to break his spell, if he isn't willing to remove it himself."

"Why on earth would the Elves want to know our movements?" Snape asked, and it sounded as if he wondered in earnest, and not just as a way of placating Lucius's paranoia.

"There are those who say that they aren't really gone," Lucius countered. "Besides, have you forgotten that your old friend, Albus Dumbledore, was a great defender of the Anvasse before they fled? He argued for their rights long before the Wand Act."

"Dumbledore is a fool," Snape spat, "but if he _is_ an Elf…." He inspected Ryan as if for the first time. His eyes took in the bruises, the hex marks, the protrusion of rib that suggested a crack, and the boy's shivering. "Have you been torturing him?" He asked angrily.

"Of course," Lucius retorted, indignant. "He infiltrated—"

"I don't care, Malfoy," Snape interrupted. "If he really _is_ an Elf, he's of much greater value alive and whole than half cursed to death! Have you considered what we could do with his blood?"

Then Ryan noticed her. Peeking out from behind Lucius's robes were a large pair of almond-shaped, bright green eyes. He listened to Malfoy and Snape confer, but watched the figure behind them. She stood, trembling slightly, her huge eyes on the verge of tears. Finally, Malfoy cut off Snape's argumentative demands and clutched her around the neck, thrusting her toward the bars.

"Go on, then, what are you waiting for?" He ordered impatiently.

The house-elf, for such she was, curtseyed nervously to her master. Ryan recognised the wizened face, and the old tattered cloth she wore from his arrival at the Manor at Christmas.

"Heddy, isn't it?" He asked very softly through the bars as she stepped forward.

"Yes, yes. Sir remembers!" Heddy said, awe-stricken. She leaned close and Ryan crouched on the flagstones to hear her. Snape and Malfoy had gone back to arguing.

"We is not betraying your secrets, sir," she assured him pathetically. "We is never telling until the Master asks us just now," she confessed, and a tear spilled out of one green eye.

Malfoy kicked her disdainfully. "Get on with it," he said menacingly.

"Please, sir," the house-elf said to Ryan. "Forgive Heddy?"

Ryan sighed. He could force the house-elf to choose between her Master and her blood, or he could admit that there was no more use to pretending. Either way, he would lose his glamour shortly. "Little cousin," he said benevolently, "you need not trouble yourself. I shall undo my own magic, that the weird shall not sit upon you, your family, or your kind."

"Ah!" Heddy exclaimed, her leathery old face bursting in to wrinkly smiles as she banged her head on a bar. "The Pelerand is good! The Pelerand is kind! The Pelerand is generous!" She shouted through gaping sobs.

"The Pelerand is a bloody fool," hissed Snape. He came forward, seeming even more upset about the truth than Lucius had been. "How long did you expect to dupe us, Pelerand? I should have gone with my instincts and seen you expelled long before this—I've always known there was something wrong about you." He snarled, turning on his heel. "I'll get that Veritaserum now, Lucius—but no more curses, I tell you. His blood is his greatest asset now. Don't squander it." 

Snape stalked out of the dungeons toward the potions laboratory, ignoring the amazing sight Ryan was about to afford his captors. He sat upon the ground, crossing his legs. He closed his eyes, mentally peeling away the layers of protection around his glamour spell, and then the spell itself. The chamber filled with light as his glamour emanated out and away. He felt the illusion fade and his regular appearance take shape. He lengthened, growing to his full height. His ears drew out to their points, his chest and back and arms and legs filled out to their full strength, and his face took on its accustomed faint lines. Fading scars puckered his arms and back, and oddly added to his ethereal beauty. On the whole, he now looked like a man of twenty-five or thirty, but back again was the liquidity and serenity of stillness inherent in his race. He opened his eyes slowly, and had Hermione been there, she would have seen again that the bright blue eyes and the firm, set jaw were still the same.

"I think I'll keep Narcissa well away from you," Lucius quipped, sounding much less forgiving than at the Christmas party. "So you admit that you are Anvasse?"

Ryan shrugged elegantly. "Had I not removed the glamour myself, you would only have forced my kinswoman to try," he concluded, nodding his head toward the house-elf, who was still blubbering. "I would not lay that geas on her head."

"Good," Lucius sneered at him. "You believe yourself a man of honour. That will make this much easier."

Lucius allowed Heddy to leave, then sent for more witnesses and guards. Now that Ryan looked like the formidable, if battered, creature he was, Lucius wanted to be certain his prisoner was outnumbered and outgunned. While they waited, Lucius brought out Ryan's wand again.

"You won't be needing this," he said, and broke it where it began to taper.

Sparks shot out both ends where the wand broke. Ryan watched him destroy the wand with quiet grace, betraying nothing. It was, after all, only a wand. 

Lucius's summons brought rather more spectators than he planned, however, for nearly half his guests ventured down to see the captive Elf. As they straggled in, Snape returned with the finished potion.

"I want to reiterate, Lucius," he said in his most professorial and professional tone, "that after this interrogation, I must insist we secure him more soundly, and only then will I harvest his blood."

"Why not just kill him, once he tells us what we want?" A young Death Eater asked. He was burly and slightly trollish.

Snape swooped down on the unfortunate individual. "First, because our Lord will no doubt wish for a better sacrifice in Thursday's ritual than you can provide, Flint, and secondly, because Elf blood is a major component in any number of spells." He came close to the Death Eater, his eyes glittering. "But then, I shouldn't really expect too much from your memory, should I, Flint, when it took you two tries to complete our curriculum for seventh year, and at that, you only barely managed to earn a satisfactory grade?" Snape snarled down at the young man, looking for all the world as if they were back in his classroom. He warmed to his topic. Though he addressed everyone in the room, he directed his gaze at Flint, boring into him as his tone grew increasingly nasty.

"Among other things, the blood of True Elves is necessary for certain methods of divination. It is used to form protective barriers in amulets and charms, and can enhance the senses if used properly. A drop placed on the tip of one's wand can supposedly detect magic. Most importantly, it is essential in several of the most effective longevity potions—and theoretically, the secrets of immortality lie in their veins as well. Add to this the absence of Elves in wizarding society for seventy years. Do you begin to understand the significance of our prisoner?" He glowered at the boy.

Flint gulped. "Yes, sir," he muttered sullenly.

Snape clicked his tongue in disgust and turned back to Ryan, who met his eyes. "Now, the Veritaserum," Snape segued. "It should work the same on Elves as humans, though I do caution," he glanced at Lucius, "I have not ever had the opportunity to test that." He locked eyes with Ryan again, drawing a vial of clear liquid out of his pocket and fingering it as he spoke. "Within seconds of administering a few drops, the prisoner will willingly answer any question we put to him with the complete, factual truth. It should be noted that where the question calls for speculation or a matter of opinion, the prisoner will answer according to his own point of view. He will be devoid of emotion, however, and offer little to no embellishment, only facts, and perhaps opinions as they pertain to the question. There should be little delay answering—"

"We understand, Severus," Lucius interrupted. "Spare us the lesson, Professor," he joked mildly. "Proceed with the demonstration." Everyone laughed.

But Ryan caught the warning in Snape's eyes during his diatribe. The Veritaserum tutorial was for Ryan's benefit, he realised. But why? What was Snape's plan?

Snape smiled at Lucius, maintaining his composure while the laughter died. "Of course," he said leniently, ignoring the older man's joke at his expense. "Open the cell," he prompted. Lucius touched his wand to the hermetic lock and the door swung out. Snape entered, closely flanked by Grissom Goyle and Walden MacNair.

Ryan saw something flash in Snape's eyes as he stepped forward, putting the vial in his left hand to draw out his wand with his right. As he advanced, Ryan saw the potions master's eyes flick imperceptibly to his wand. Ryan understood. Here was the intelligence that Dumbledore valued—the aptitude for unspoken communication Ryan sought in Karkaroff, but did not find. Snape told him with his eyes and a minute shake of his wand to put up a token resistance. To put on a show. So Ryan flinched away.

"Hold him!" Snape spat at the others, who grabbed Ryan instantly. "_Imperio_!" Snape chanted quickly.

Ryan heard Snape's voice, an icy calm baritone, in his head immediately. "Don't fight anymore. Open your mouth. Take the serum. Trust me, open your mouth, Ryan."

Ryan complied, and it was as if there were not a care in his head. But then the spell lifted and he choked on droplets of liquid being shaken onto his tongue. The Veritaserum, and with it the end of his chicanery. He fumed with anger—Snape really was a traitor, or else chose to hide himself by revealing Ryan. But even as he allowed the thought to cross his mind, he realised it made no sense. Ryan could easily expose Snape—so why give him serum?

The reason quickly became clear. As he sputtered and swallowed the potion, he tasted it, and then he understood Snape's cunning trick. It wasn't Veritaserum at all, but water. Somehow, he had filled the vial with plain water, under Lucius Malfoy's nose! Ryan's surprise must have shown for an instant, because Snape's eyes flashed again, more darkly than before and tinged with warning.

"It should take effect any second," he said loudly, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

Ryan blinked once slowly, and slackened his jaw.

"There," Snape said, and the relief in the single word was clear to Ryan, but the Death Eaters heard only his satisfaction. "Ask what you must, Lucius," he continued, moving to one side, but still ready. 'Watching my back,' Ryan thought gratefully.

But Snape had not left him with an easy task, by any stretch of the imagination. Indeed, his path now was perhaps more difficult, for he could not hesitate to answer, but must still piece out those parts of the truth that he could hide, and those facts which Lucius could easily check or might know to be contradictory. If he slipped, he would implicate not only himself, but Snape, and they both would die.

He didn't have time to worry anymore. The questions began.

"What is your real name?"

"Jorian Peleranel," he abbreviated flatly.

"Were you educated at Hogwarts?"

"Yes," Ryan answered. It was too easy to confirm the fact.

"When did you attend Hogwarts?"

Ryan thought for one moment, searching his memory frantically while keeping his face slack. "By human reckoning, fifteen hundred and seventy-five to fifteen hundred and eighty-two," he supplied, giving dates that belonged to his father's term. It was the only thing he could think of to deflect attention from Dumbledore.

"Then you are four hundred and thirty years old?"

"Four hundred and thirty-two, human reckoning," Ryan corrected in a toneless voice.

"But…surely you were not in Slytherin then?" Wormtail interjected.

"No." That too, was easy to verify. No Pelerand had been in a house other than Gryffindor.

"Then how did you fool the Sorting Hat?" Lucius asked sharply.

Ryan hesitated a second before deciding to lie. "I cast an Anvasse spell to bend it to my will."

This caused a ripple of excitement around the room. A spell more powerful than the magic of all the Founders put together? It seemed hardly likely, but he was under serum. His methods were not questioned. Lucius moved on to more important topics.

"Why did the Elves send you here?"

"The Anvasse did not send me here," Ryan answered, choosing a literal interpretation. If Snape said he could stick to facts, then that's what he would do.

"What was your mission, then?" Lucius asked, sounding a little annoyed.

"I returned to Hogwarts as part of routine surveillance of human developments. My mission was merely to observe and report." He stopped. Let them draw the questions out; it gave him time to think and set his story straight.

"What do you mean?"

"The Anvasse are far from disappeared," Ryan revealed. It was a calculated risk, but a necessary bridge for his tale. "From time to time, we send one of our number to discover how the human world progresses. We heard rumours of Voldemort's return, and I was selected, because of my history with Hogwarts, to investigate."

"You routinely infiltrate Hogwarts classes?" Lucius asked, incredulous despite the serum.

Ryan suppressed a shrug. "A few years every century or so is nothing," he said lightly.

"Who do you serve, then?"

"I am a loyal subject of His Majesty, Melian Peleranel, High King of the Council of the Seven Houses."

"And who among wizards?"

"I serve no human," Ryan said readily. The only difficulty was keeping his voice free from any hint of laughter.

"Then how do you explain your signature on the parchment?" Lucius fired back, suddenly suspicious.

Ryan took a steadying breath before answering. The parchment. A slip that he could not afford to have happen again. "I tricked that as well," he lied again. Let them think his magic was great and terrible. It would make escaping—if he could escape—that much more likely. Particularly if Snape risked helping him get away, this display of Anvasse power would lend credence to Snape's tale, whatever it might be.

They drilled him further. Sometimes Wormtail or one of the others would interject a question, but mostly it was Lucius's even voice that almost hypnotised as it probed. Death Eaters left and arrived, some staying to hear the questioning, some wandering away in boredom. Ryan kept his breathing even and concentrated on showing the outward signs of the serum effects. He dissembled wherever he could, lessening his impact, protecting Snape and Dumbledore, hiding how much he had observed or surmised. He moved into something like a trance, answering question after question, not daring to hesitate too long, nor reveal too much.

"What have you reported about us?"

"Things of significance to the Anvasse Council. The use of students to infiltrate Hogwarts and recruit new followers, the activities at Yule and in January."

"The release of the prisoners from Azkaban?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I have made no report since informing my superiors that I would return here on your Easter holiday." Ryan chanced raising his eyes, careful to keep them looking glassy and unfocused.

"When do they expect another report?"

"Soon. When I returned to Hogwarts." He thought he saw Draco peek out over another man's shoulder, but could not risk looking more intently.

"How do you communicate?"

"Owl."

"To whom do you report?"

"To my superiors among the Anvasse."

"And what do they do with your information?"

"I don't know."

"Are you in any position of power or influence among the Anvasse?"

"No," Ryan said at once. While again, this risked his own life, it would do no good for them to think he had any worth as a hostage. It wasn't even exactly a lie; though royal, he would never rule, and while his status did give him an advantage in the political maelstrom of the court, his rank was no guarantee he'd be afforded any special consideration.

"Are the Anvasse Council considering action against our Order?"

"I don't know." He was sincerely relieved they didn't think to judge his heart rate or blood pressure, the way Muggles did on polygraph tests. He lied in a deadpan voice, staring at nothing, trying not to blink or move too much.

"Would they join forces with humans again?"

"I don't know."

"Would they support Dumbledore, if he asked them?"

"I don't know." Ryan was careful to use the same inflection each time, flat, with no embellishment or sign of indignation.

"Has he asked them for support?"

"Not to my knowledge," Ryan lied easily.

"Does Dumbledore know of your identity?"

"If he does, he hasn't said anything about it." Ryan cursed having to reveal that much, but to simply deny was too dangerous. It was a matter of record that Dumbledore's time at Hogwarts overlapped Ryan's own. Such contact with a Pelerand would make it almost impossible for Dumbledore not to notice Ryan's resemblance, but at least, Ryan reasoned, he could leave the door open for speculation.

The lack of real serum came in most useful during questions like these, where he could easily deflect suspicions about Dumbledore and even Death Eaters. Lucius must have still had his suspicions about Snape, too, because he asked several questions having to do with action such as Snape had in fact taken, trying to warn Ryan away and keeping him from signing his name.

"Has anyone approached you to try to keep you out of the fight?"

"No."

"Did anyone speak to you secretly at Christmas?"

"Narcissa," Ryan began, but Lucius shied away from further questions along those lines after that admission.

On and on they went, asking questions both direct and veiled, about humans, about Elves, and about the things Ryan knew or did not know. Ryan wasn't sure how he got through, keeping his composure and somehow stringing words together that convinced them he was relatively ineffective, or that his chosen route to information, namely Draco, was marvellously uninformed.

At last, the interrogation drew to a close. The spectators filed out and away, convinced there was no more entertainment to see, since Snape had effectively prohibited any more torture. Snape insisted that Ryan be placed in irons and chained to the wall, also that guards be left on duty to watch him. And as a third precaution, he suggested the use of a powerful draught of his own concoction to addle the Elf's wits.

As Ryan allowed his head to loll to one side, he saw that Wormtail had remained behind as well. Clearly, he and Lucius hoped Ryan's answers would shed more light on spies within their ranks, but apparently they trusted the integrity of the Veritaserum, so they allowed Snape his conditions.

Lucius summoned the house-elves with chains and manacles for Ryan's hands and feet. Three Death Eaters dragged Ryan, still behaving sluggishly, to the wall of the cell, bare except for heavy iron links here and there. They ran the chain through one of the links and fastened the cuffs to his wrists and ankles, tightening them around his boots to trap him.

"Iron will subdue him?" Wormtail asked as they locked his arms in place and he let them hang as low as possible.

"No; that's an old wives' tale," Snape rejoined haughtily. Ryan got the impression these two were old rivals of some sort. "But chains will." He stepped forward again, conjuring a syringe and a large bottle along with some tubing. He tugged the chains roughly, pulling Ryan's right arm lower, raising the left higher proportionately. If Snape was surprised to see a neat scar, in the shape of a capital "T," in the hollow of Ryan's elbow and down his forearm, he betrayed nothing. He tied Ryan's biceps with a piece of rubber, plunged the syringe free of air and attached it to the tubing and the bottle, and without saying a word, pricked Ryan's arm with the needle just under his scar.

Blood spilled out of Ryan's arm, deep purple in colour as it passed through the complicated network of tubes to Snape's bottle. He conjured a bottle of yellow liquid and forced Ryan to drink it as he had the Veritaserum.

"I'll be back to change this when it's full," Snape announced, pointing to the bottle that began to collect the dark, heavy substance. "He should be given food and allowed to rest, before I harvest more, after that."

"Immortality, is it?" Lucius mused very quietly, as if to himself.

"Possibly," Snape confirmed. "It's been a long time since anyone's had an Elf to conduct research upon." He sneered down at Ryan, his face showing disgust and betrayal. "And what better use for him, after the way he wormed his way inside our circles, eh?"

"You know, Severus," Lucius said to him as he pulled the cell door shut, locking Ryan in, "you've still got a lot to atone for, but one can always count on your keen sense of vindication."

They left, still conversing lightly as their voices faded from the dungeon.

Snape's Veritaserum had been fake, but his narcotics were very real. They dulled the pain and slowed his blood flow—side effects which, Ryan was sure, Snape planned. Nevertheless, Ryan would rather have lost the blood and borne the pain in order to retain his wits. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his arms numbing where they hung, the leg cuffs biting his ankles through the leather. When he did sleep, he relived flashes of the mission, of past missions, his previous losses at the hands of Jareth Malfoy.

He was dimly aware of sounds in the next cell, as they returned to interrogate Karkarkoff as well. He wondered if Snape gave him real potion, for he heard the man confess to things he should never have willingly told. Certainly, he thought through his fog, it would be wise for Snape to verify the potion in order to draw any suspicion away from the dose he'd given Ryan. It was hard to sleep while the Death Eaters questioned Karkaroff, because they kept venting their anger by cursing him with the Cruciatus, among others. 

They were just leaving around the time the drug wore off, and he heard Snape comment that he would stay behind to check on the "patient." Though Ryan's senses returned to normal, he still felt off. He coughed, then shivered and felt a wave of illness wash over him. He suspected that the stress, fatigue, damp, beatings, curses, hexes, drugs, and not least blood loss, had given him a fever.

Snape was talking to the guards in a conversational tone. They barely saw him finger his wand and Confund them with it. He turned immediately to the cell and let himself in, crouching low to speak quietly to Ryan.

"I've Confunded the guards for a bit so we can talk," he muttered under his breath, "but they'll still notice too much activity or noise."

The fever must have been in Ryan's eyes, for Snape noticed something amiss and placed a clammy hand against Ryan's forehead.

"What is an Anvasse's regular temperature?" He asked as he worked, but with the tone of an academic question. 

Ryan groaned a little. "…About 96 degrees?" He guessed.

Snape sighed. "Well, this is one of Albus's more hair-brained schemes," he said a bit darkly, rejecting without confirmation Ryan's supposed age and denials that Albus was involved. "Have you thought about how you're going to get out?"

Ryan smirked. "No—I've been busy being drugged," he quipped.

Snape appeared more grim than amused. "Why the hell didn't you _tell_ me?" He growled, lifting up the bottle of blood and examining it. He placed it back on the floor and pulled bandages out of his robe pocket.

"I tried!" Ryan began forcefully, pulling on his chains. This was a mistake in more ways than one, and he fell back weakly and lowered his voice. "I tried," he repeated in a hoarse whisper, "but you weren't ever in the mood to listen."

Snape paused in his first aid. Even through his fevered haze, Ryan could see the wheels turning in Snape's head as he thought back through every conversation they had in private, every warning he issued, and every rebuke and response from the would-be Death Eater. 

"I never lied to any of you," Ryan commented wryly. "You all just hear what you wish." He shivered again, and sneezed.

"I don't have much time," Snape said, his voice low and deadly serious. "Lucius has the house shielded from direct Apparition, but there are areas on the grounds where it's possible. If I can arrange to get you outside, can you find one and Apparate to safety?"

"No," Ryan sighed, shaking his head. "I can't Apparate."

"Can't App—" Snape squawked, just as angrily as Ryan had done moments before. But he caught himself just as quickly as the Confunded guards looked up. "Why in Merlin's name not?" He hissed demandingly.

"I've just never got 'round to it," Ryan spat back with venom. "It's on my list of things to do—if it makes you feel better, I'll bump it up to the highest priority," he retorted sarcastically. But before Snape could say more, he continued, "But that hardly changes the situation. No—if you can get me out of the dungeons, and a good ten minute start, I think I can steal away. Perhaps a diversion of some sort?"

Snape thought a moment. "I shall see what I can do," he said wearily, sounding more like the man Dumbledore described than Ryan had ever heard him. "But I can't guarantee anything."

Despite his fever and weakness, Ryan's intensity matched Snape's. "No—absolutely not. That goes without saying. Our friend saw the point of two operatives, but as I am compromised, I am nothing. We cannot risk you as well."

Snape accepted this without comment. "I'm out of time," he sighed. "_He_'s due to arrive any moment, and there will be work to do tonight, preparing for the next two days. If I can arrange something, is there anything you brought that you need? Obviously I can't do anything about your wand." Though the words were said in haste and without emotion, Ryan could just detect a tinge of regret in Snape's last statement.

He shrugged as much as his chains would allow. "It's just a stick," he said, minimizing its loss. "And the rest is unimportant… but there is one thing…." He described his treasure to Snape.

"I don't promise…." Snape began.

"No, but if you can't, please at least see that they're destroyed," Ryan asked civilly.

"Yes, that's possible." He sucked his teeth, checking his job on Ryan's bandage. "Hang on," he advised sagely. "I might be able to set things in motion by tomorrow or the next day."

He rose just in time to notice that the Confundus charm had worn off. He had no choice but to give Ryan another dose of the drugs in their sight.

Ryan drifted through day and night in a fog. He heard guards come back to fetch Karkaroff and saw, as if through a wine-filled glass, them carry the other prisoner upstairs. From the information he heard Lucius give the former Headmaster of Durmstrang, and what he'd heard in the front parlour before Lucius called his bluff, they planned to use Karkaroff in a dark ritual of some sort. Had Lucius mentioned a double full moon? It was well after midnight when he delivered that speech, and Ryan had no idea how long he'd been interrogated. Adding Karkaroff's interrogation and torture…he tried to calculate. Lucius said on Tuesday that Voldemort would arrive that night, that the moon would be full the next night and the night after that. If they had removed Karkaroff from the dungeons, Ryan guessed it must be near midnight—if that's when the ritual took place. Was it still Tuesday? No, it had to be Wednesday, if the ritual was for the full moon. He couldn't move his arms, for one was numb from the angle at which it hung, and the other felt over-full of blood—a reaction, he knew, to being drained of it earlier. Though it was nothing but an illusion, still, it left him in a near helpless state.

He must have slept. Indeed, when he next became aware, his muscles and joints felt achy and stiff as if he'd slept in his awkward position. His guards were different as well, when he looked up. A throb in his rib cage signalled that Snape's drugs were wearing off. His chill and fever were worse, though, and he felt the tickle of a cough building in his lungs. If he did manage to escape Malfoy Manor, he'd be lucky not to collapse from pneumonia.

He hardly noticed the boy standing by the cell door at first. He was watching quietly, but a finger tapped his arm nervously as he waited. Ryan blinked to bring the blurry figure into focus. He was pale, and had…silvery blond hair.

"Jareth?" Ryan asked tentatively. "Oh—Draco," he realised, laughing a little at his mistake. Snape's drugs, or the fever, or both. "Sorry. I'm a bit delirious. Hallo, Draco," he continued, more pleasantly than he felt.

But the boy glared at him with a mixture of hatred and hurt. He came forward to touch the cell door bars, a look of disgust on his face. "So it's true? Vincent told me his father saw you change, but…you're really an Elf?"

"Yes," Ryan nodded. "I'm really an Elf."

"And you went to Hogwarts a long time ago?"

"Yes, that's true," Ryan said wearily. He felt he knew where this would lead.

"You lied to me!" Draco accused. 

"I mislead you, Draco," Ryan admitted calmly. "But I did not lie."

"You're lying now! Everything you said… everything you did—"

"Draco, I'm sorry I had to deceive you. But if you examine our interaction, you'll find that whenever I could tell you the truth, I did so. You may have interpreted it differently than I, but that is not my doing." He wondered, idly, whether Lucius knew or approved of his son's visit.

Draco slammed an open palm against the iron bar. "You used me! I trusted you—and all you wanted to do was get close, to spy on us!" His face turned pink in his anger.

"Draco," Ryan insisted firmly, and clearly. "I do not deny that my mission was to find out what I could, or that you were chosen as a conduit of information. But do you honestly think that I am the only person using you?" Ryan strained forward against his bonds, allowing his paternal instincts for Draco to show at last. "Child, you are not the only pawn in this game. Nor are you even the most harmed."

Draco was not impressed. "I thought you were my friend. My father—he even told me to be more like you! And you betrayed him! You betrayed me!" His eyes flashed and his face reddened even more with fury. "Whatever they do to you tonight, I hope it's worse than what they did to Karkaroff. You deserve it!"

"Draco…" Ryan tried again soothingly, but the boy refused to listen. He stormed away, ignoring the Elf's calm entreaties, pushing past the guards to retreat after unleashing his wrath.

Ryan sighed. The boy was a sore disappointment, as indeed was Gregory Goyle, but they were neither of them his concern anymore. He closed his eyes in defeat, wishing they had come to see the flaws in their fathers' devotions to Voldemort, and drifted back to sleep again.

His body fought off its infection as best it could, but without true rest or a fire to warm him, his fever raged on. Someone brought him food—a simple stew and some bread—but he couldn't keep even the small portion down for long. Snape arrived again, to prick his arm with the needle and set another bottle filling, but this time, he had news to report.

"Karkaroff's dead," he said first, "and in exchange for his sacrifice, the Dark Lord has secured the help of both Trolls and Dwarfs. He bound them to service using a particularly distasteful spell."

Ryan nodded patiently, but said nothing, only grunting as Snape ripped off the bandage on his arm. That made today Thursday, didn't it, and the second of the full moons Lucius mentioned. He seemed to recall something else about a second night of something, but Snape was talking again.

"They want to use you tonight. I tried to argue that we need you alive as a source of blood, but Lucius is adamant that you are a danger and a liability he cannot afford to keep under constant surveillance. His point is well taken, and unfortunately, my opinions are not the most valued in the Dark Lord's circle these days." He shuddered, his hands slipping on the syringe as he attached the tube.

"Naturally," Ryan said without malice. Snape pulled on the syringe to start the blood flowing. "So I should prepare myself, is that what you're saying?" He asked after a moment, surprised that he didn't feel more disappointed. One hundred and fifty-four years, nearly, and it came to this.

"Not quite," Snape commented dryly. "There's a slim chance. Here's what I plan to do."

Snape informed Wormtail that the latest sample of Ryan's blood was useless, owing to the Elf's physical condition and the squalor of the dungeons. By using Wormtail's fragile ego against him, Snape convinced the little man to authorise Ryan's removal from the dungeon, and installation in the kitchens, where Snape could work in more sanitary conditions. There were still guards on the door, and Ryan was kept bound, but at least he was in a less secure area of the house. More importantly, they were among the house-elves. Though these were given strict instructions not to unshackle him, there were other ways they could help.

Ryan and Snape argued over enlisting the house-elves' aid, but in the end, Snape made Ryan see the necessity of it. He assured Ryan that he understood the implications to the house-elves, especially the impact on their powers should they defy their masters, and the physical punishment they would endure if caught. But although it put the diminutive creatures in a poor position of divided loyalty, it greatly enhanced Ryan's chance of escape.

Ryan waited until the guards outside were not looking, and waved his hands behind his back in their direction. "_Bilmas_," he whispered, and the two men wandered a few feet further away, following a single fairy who had wandered in from the garden. Then Ryan spoke with Heddy, who seemed to be more-or-less in charge, and instructed her on their parts.

"We is finding no conflicting of interest, by helping the Pelerand," Heddy assured him. "We is serving our Master, but he is no kin to us. Is the others returning soon, led by the Pelerand? Is the Day at hand?"

Ryan smiled charmingly. "That I cannot say with certainty, little cousin, but this I can tell you: the Anvasse have ever been friends and kinsmen to the Dovasse, and we feel no shame in this—only sorrow that your service to Humans is met with their scorn."

The house-elves ceased their labours to bow to him, then, and he knew that they did not begrudge the stain which would blot them for defying their master in order to help. Though in truth, he reasoned as the day wore on, Snape had cleverly insisted only that the house-elves be ordered not to untie him. Lucius never ordered them not to help him escape. They didn't have permission to help, certainly, but neither had they been forbidden, exactly. It was splitting hairs, admittedly, but he would rest easier knowing that the weird would not mark them or their progeny. They would not face another millennium of enslavement to the Malfoys on his account.

Shortly before sunset, while nearly everyone was at dinner, and Wormtail and Lucius served their master in a private room upstairs, Snape brought a change of guard to check on the prisoner while he monitored Ryan's progress and his blood's purity. The house-elves encircled the guards, swarming them with a veritable storm of offers of food, hot towels, and any number of little services to ease them. The guards were soon surrounded, allowing Snape time to tap his wand against the heavy clasps holding Ryan's wrists and ankles fast. Ryan lost no time flowing power into his glamour and ordering the guards to sleep. They fell instantly, their heads butting one another as their knees buckled and they sank to the kitchen floor. Ryan stumbled and fell also, for the glamour used with the spell cost him precious energy. He drained his aura, its force fading and ebbing until he no longer glowed with its evanescent majesty. Snape bent over the two guards, tapping each on the forehead with his wand.

"We is cleaning up the mess in the kitchens; we is helping our Master's guests, now," Heddy said in a sing-song voice. "Master's guests is tired—Dilly and Tibby, you is taking them to their rooms, now." Heddy giggled in an unnaturally high-pitched squeal as the two elves complied. "We is thinking it very rude to be moving humans around, but to be helping the Pelerand," she beamed at him with her great saucer-like green eyes, "we is pleased to be using our powers."

"My people and I thank you, Heddy. The Pelerand owes you and your family a debt."

Heddy's eyes, if possible, grew larger and spilled over in tears. Her lip trembled. "Oh!" She wailed with joy. "The Pelerand is ever generous!" She declared solemnly.

"Much as I hate to break up the mutual admiration society," Snape growled at him, "we are on rather a tight schedule."

"Yes, of course," Ryan agreed, pulling himself to his feet using the table legs. "Heddy, has the path to the stables been cleared?"

Heddy, still too overcome with emotion, merely nodded her huge head several times, enough to make her ears flap, between sobs.

"Excellent. See that it stays so, will you?" He accompanied Snape to the doorway. "You're certain about the memory charms?" He asked Snape.

Snape's mouth twisted. "They can be broken, certainly, but I think combined with the rest it will work. I'll make it known that you caused a ruckus, but that I got you subdued again. In about fifteen minutes I'll send someone to check and make sure you're still bound. It'll take five to ten minutes to notice he hasn't returned; that should give you your head start."

"And keep you well out of the fire," Ryan nodded his agreement. "I do wish it weren't this complicated."

Snape shrugged. "If I'm anywhere near you when you escape, it'll be too suspicious. As it is, I wish I didn't have to modify those two's memories. Just do what you must and get out of here best you can. Get somewhere where you can rest," he said with an appraising scowl. "You still look ill to me."

"I am," Ryan agreed, pushing the pain back again to deal with his escape. "Lucius's dungeons do their job well. Right, that's that then…." He hesitated before disappearing back into the kitchen. "There's one more thing…" he ventured.

"Oh, for Slytherin's sake, don't stand there and try to thank me, or tell me you owe me a debt," Snape hissed at him impatiently, rolling his eyes back toward the house-elves.

Ryan smiled sadly. "I do thank you, and most certainly there is debt owed and paid, but we may debate that another day. No—I have a matter of much greater importance on my mind. Two, actually. Goyle. And—Draco."

Snape's eyes clouded for a moment as he considered his two pupils. "Yes," he sighed, eyes closing and opening again instantly, clear and dark once more. "Yes. I am in a precarious position," he commented.

"I know," Ryan assured him, holding back his impulse to place a hand on Snape's shoulder. "Goyle has a poet's soul, but is wholly enamoured of the Death Eaters. He sees this entire operation as a new Round Table."

"Damn," Snape muttered, taking in the new insight.

"Indeed," Ryan countered. "As for Draco…." He trailed off. How could he summarise this deeply complicated boy to Snape in a few seconds' conversation? "He's on the precipice," he explained. "He's been betrayed now, and that will lead him to question everyone who influences his life. It's the first step, I'm sure you know, and he has a long way to go still."

"You think he will forsake his father?" Snape surmised, though from his tone he obviously doubted it.

"I think…he will need guidance. I think he may come to you to seek it. You are in a natural position—"

"A position I have deliberately and carefully cultivated, not just for Draco," Snape supplied. "But I admit, I was beginning to wonder whether he'd ever trust me enough to express himself."

"Perhaps now he might. Are you prepared?"

Snape paused before answering. Ryan thought for a moment that Snape might ask him why he cared, why it mattered to him, but then Snape must have seen the answer in Ryan's eyes. No soul was too small to be beneath salvaging.

"I'm prepared," Snape said sincerely. "I won't let him fall."

Ryan nodded his gratitude, and without any other discussion, went back to his hiding place.

Snape was as good as his word. Precisely fifteen minutes later, a younger Death Eater strode confidently into their trap. Ryan dispatched him silently, sending him off to sleep with a spell, and told the house-elves to wake the lad in ten minutes.

"We is knowing what to do!" Heddy said, her head bobbing. The others as well stopped working for a moment to acknowledge the Anvasse with a solemn bow.

"Thank you all again. You've done yourselves proud. Farewell," Ryan told them, with a formal bow of his own. Then he checked the hallway and slipped away into the gathering dark.

He crept across the grounds, slinking from shadow to shadow with minimal fuss. He chest ached from the cracked rib—why hadn't he asked Snape to heal it? Fear they'd check Snape's wand, he thought grimly, or the fever addling him, or simply stubborn pride—and he felt incredibly tired from using his innate magic. All the legends about the so-called Fae had some basis in truth: Anvasse could perform amazing feats of illusion, conjuration, and even transportation, but the magic certainly left them drained and fatigued, especially the further from their forests and glades they were. Ryan had been far from home for too long.

Though he desired nothing more than to lie in the sweet grass and soak in the light of the full moon rising behind the trees, he knew now was not the time. He could not afford to stop. He slipped into the stables and breathed the scent of horses and hay.

"Hello, pretties," he said soothingly, walking down the aisle to the chestnut gelding he had ridden days ago with Draco. "Greetings, friend," he said in a low, comforting voice to the large animal. He reached up and stroked the horse's broad nose. "Would you like to come with me?"

The gelding snorted warm air into Ryan's face and dipped its head once.

"I'm glad," Ryan told him, and opened the latch on the horse's stall. The gelding followed him to the line of neatly hung tack. Ryan efficiently bridled the horse, and was about to add a saddle when he heard shouts from the house.

Clearly, the sleeping guards had been missed sooner than anticipated. Cursing his bad luck, he led the chestnut out of the stables quickly. Once outside, he used a fence rail to climb onto the horse's back, but could not suppress a grunt of pain from the exertion and strain. This night time ride would not be pleasant at all, he remarked to himself as he kicked the horse's flanks.

The gelding set off at a fast trot, but the noise only alerted the Death Eaters to Ryan's location that much faster.

"He's on the west side!" He heard one yell. He urged his horse into a gallop and instantly regretted his chosen speed. The horse's motion, combined with Ryan's own injuries and fatigue, and the absence of a saddle, created simple agony. And he couldn't reach his little boot knife, not that it would do him much good now.

He sped into the woods, pressing on despite his pain and the resurgence of fever. He still had no shirt or cloak, and the breeze created by his flight made him shiver. At least, he thought daringly as he passed the tree line, it wasn't raining.

He heard someone behind him shout the words of a hurling hex. Ryan ducked and looked under his arm. Five Death Eaters were pursuing him on broomsticks, gaining ground quickly.

Ryan leaned forward to urge the horse even faster, and pointed his right hand back at his attacker. "_Vo ta mir_!" He cried in his native tongue, and a wall of fire sprang up between him and his pursuers. 

"_Finite Incantatem_," he heard Lucius Malfoy's voice recite clearly, and looked back. His strength was failing: the wall of fire flickered for a second before reappearing.

"It's an illusion!" Lucius called to the others. "Ignore it—get him!"

Ryan swore, tumbling through the trees into a clearing where he could see the rising moon. He tugged the bridle and pulled the horse to the left, leaving the bare patch for the woods again. While he would make more noise, the brooms would be slowed and hampered by the trees. He cast another spell over his shoulder, a jet of water this time, and reeled against the horse's neck from the drain in his energy. Faintly, he thought he heard a Death Eater fall from his broom, but could neither pause to look nor spare the energy to worry about it.

"Sorolor!" He called desperately. "Founder! Father-chief, hunter in the sky. Orion my namesake in the Human tongue! Save me! Help me!" He galloped on.

The Death Eaters pursued him deeper into the woods. A particularly well-aimed spell of brambles tangled two of them up, and Ryan was left with two captors still dogging him. Lucius was among them.

He chanced to look back to check their positions and let his horse breathe for a moment. Lucius brought his broom up and over the brambles expertly, but had to bank hard to the right to avoid a large stand of elder trees. He circled their trunks tightly enough to brush the bark off them, then shot forward after Ryan again.

Ryan kicked his horse more roughly than he would have liked, but he was much too tired for fine control. His fever raged and he felt he might fall off at any moment, hurling hex or no. But ahead, he could see the edge of the forest and the white disk of the moon illuminating the horizon. He could not risk leaving the forest, where Lucius could easily outstrip him on the broom, he thought dimly. His only choice was to find a sheltered spot to stand and fight. He hoped he could hold out long enough to disrupt the planned ritual.

He wheeled his horse around again to plunge back into the forest. Up ahead, it seemed he could see two figures, low to the ground, moving toward him. Ryan allowed himself to wish Lucius had not snapped his wand—for if he'd had it, a drop of his blood could have helped him a number of ways. Most notably, he could have combined it with "Lumos" to cast a light no one else could see. But he did not have that advantage, nor did he have time to indulge in self-pity over his misfortune. These two were either Death Eaters off their brooms, or some kind of help. They were not walking upright, though, which argued against the former. Reasoning that any help was better than none, Ryan directed his mount toward the crouching forms.

Only to wish he hadn't done. The moonlight flickered through the trees, and Ryan's catlike night vision placed the creatures. A huge, black dog, the size of a bear, and what was unmistakably a wolf! Huge, hairy, snarling, deathly frightening beasts! Ryan reined up on his horse with a scream of terror. He tried to reverse his direction and run from the wolf and dog—he'd always been terrified of large dogs since a too-close encounter with a wolf in his youth—but he wheeled the horse too quickly and instead it reared. The horse's whinny of surprise matched Ryan's scream as he fell off, for without stirrups he had no way to remain seated. He landed with a thud almost at the creatures' feet. The horse spooked and ran wildly into the night.

Babbling incoherently and swearing a blue streak, Ryan backed away from the menacing, slavering beasts. He hardly cared that there were still two Death Eaters behind him. He couldn't think beyond his irrational fear. He whimpered in a constant stream of his own ancient language. Very slowly, he reached for his boot knife.

The two creatures paused, and seemed to look at one another before proceeding. The wolf, a predominantly light brown creature whose muzzle and head were flecked with grey, sat on his haunches while the black dog crawled forward on his belly. In his feverish state, Ryan thought perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed that the wolf signalled the dog to take point on the contact. Ryan scuttled away, still hysterical, brandishing the tiny knife between him and the threat. With an audible sigh, the dog changed shape…to a man? A wizard, Ryan realised, forcing himself to breathe calmly, and losing the battle.

"Er…Albus sent us in your direction," the former dog said in a gravelly, oddly familiar voice. "He seemed to think you might need help." He looked back at the wolf with a small shrug.

Perplexed, and near hyperventilation, Ryan took a hard look at the wizard and his lupine companion. The wizard had black, short hair, was wearing dark robes and a lopsided grin. He had a wand in his belt. The wolf was calm, but his snout was slightly flatter and wider than any wolf Ryan had seen, his paws were also wider and looked as if they had extra pads, almost like thumbs, and his tail, curled now around his crouching haunches, was not as shaggy as a true wolf's….

Ryan tried to speak but had to swallow away the dryness. "W…werewolf?" He managed finally, pointing to the specimen.

"Yes," the wizard said with his skewed grin. "Under Wolfsbane potion, don't worry." He pulled himself forward again, just as a cloud shifted and a little more light shone through the bare trees. "And I'm—"

"Cygnus?" Ryan said incredulously, placing the face and voice at last. There was no doubt: this man looked exactly like his old classmate. Even the eyes were the same, and the jaw had the same off-centred roguishness that endeared him to countless witches. "But—you're dead," Ryan remembered aloud. Then he giggled. Then he fainted.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione pulled their cloaks around them as they left the castle for Hagrid's hut. Though it was a bright, cheery spring morning, the wind cut through their robes despite the shining sun.

As they crossed the grounds, though, they caught sight of a strange group making its way up the hill from the gates.

"What in the…." Ron asked, using his hand as a visor to see them through the glare. A man in robes was walking next to a large figure on all fours. It wasn't a horse, or a camel, but it carried something on its back that made it look as if it had a hump. They were making progress slowly, and the man occasionally reached out to steady whatever it was the creature carried.

"That's Padfoot!" Harry said without hesitation, and he ran down the hill to meet them.

Ron and Hermione followed in his wake. As they approached, the large black dog barked in greeting.

"Hullo!" Professor Lupin, for it was he, greeted the three students fondly when they got close. He looked exhausted.

"Professor, what's—who's—" Ron began.

"Oh my goodness!" Hermione exclaimed, her gaze falling on the man draped across the Animagus's back. "Is that Ryan?" She asked astutely, going very white. He looked lucky to be alive. His ear tips poked out of his hair, which was a little longer than she remembered it. He was badly beaten and banged up, and his pale, bare back was beginning to burn from the sun, where it wasn't purplish from bruising. Hermione bit her lip, afraid to ask what they all went through to bring him to safety.

Lupin shrugged. "I think so. He, er, fainted shortly after we found him last night." Hermione looked up to see the former professor turn just the tiniest bit pink.

Now Hagrid and Fang, alerted by the barking dog, also came outside and rushed to the gathering.

"Blimey," Hagrid said with a low whistle at Ryan's condition. "He's a fair long ways from home." Fang sniffed the black dog hesitantly, but then wagged his tail in recognition.

"Hagrid, it's Ryan!" Ron said impressively, and was suitably rewarded by Hagrid's sharp gasp. 

"Hermione, it's a good thing you told Professor Dumbledore," Harry said to her quietly at the same time, but his eyes were on Padfoot the whole time. Lupin was talking over them both to Hagrid. 

"Hagrid, can you help us get him to the hospital wing?" He asked without preamble.

"Certainly, Professor, but what about you?"

"I'm heading there now, myself." He smiled weakly at the students, who had fallen silent, watching the exchange. "I know you three must have a lot of questions. But I'm afraid I don't have many answers for you." His gaze fell on Harry, then on the black dog, who whined up at him once. "Harry, I know Padfoot here wants to spend time with you, and I'm sure you feel the same. But we'll be here, resting up, for a little while. It's been… a very long couple of nights."

"That can wait," Harry said, watching Hagrid lift the unconscious—and very different-looking—Ryan off the dog's back and carry him gingerly up to the castle. Though he wanted to catch up with his godfather, it seemed Ryan's troubles were much more pressing than his. Nobody had even tried to kill him this year. So far, anyway. 

"Did you rescue him then? From the Death Eaters?" Harry asked. Padfoot came to his side and he touched the big dog's head in reassurance. Padfoot's tail wagged happily as well, but he rested his head against Harry wearily.

"Yes," Lupin acknowledged with a sigh. "Forgive me, but can we walk while you ask me about this?" He pointed up toward the castle.

"That's right!" Hermione said suddenly. "There full moons both last night and the night before last—oh, Professor, you must feel horrible!"

Remus smiled again, resignedly, and the trio accompanied him and the large black dog up to the main entrance and the hospital wing.

"I had no idea Professor Dumbledore would send you," Hermione said apologetically.

"We were…in the area," Lupin explained. "I had to get my potion from Professor Snape, which meant I had to be nearby where he was…." He lapsed into silence, pausing to stretch and yawn, and then with another determined sigh, resumed walking.

Albus met them just as they climbed the stairs. "I just saw you all coming," he said, taking advantage of the nearly empty building to speak candidly. "Did everything go all right?" He asked urgently, rushing Hagrid on his way and turning to Lupin for explanations. It was a mark of his concern that he did not bother to send the students away first; though, Hermione reasoned, he knew they were aware already of Ryan's, Sirius's, and Lupin's secrets.

"As well as could be expected, Headmaster," Lupin said wearily. "You did warn us that our charge might not be of much help, but…I don't think we either anticipated him to react as he did."

"What do you mean?" Dumbledore's brow furrowed. He put his hand on Lupin's elbow in what could have been a simple gesture to direct him around the corner, but Harry, trailing behind them at Padfoot's side, could see that Dumbledore was actually supporting Lupin up the remaining stairs to the infirmary. Hermione and Ron brought up the rear.

"Well, Sirius could tell you better than I. He was frightened of us—that's to be expected, if he didn't anticipate help—but there was more to it than caution. And then…." He shrugged. "He's ill; it's possible he was hallucinating. As I said, you'll really have to ask Sirius; it was he who talked to him."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed in confusion. He glanced back at the dog, who was pressed against Harry and following the two wizards' conversation intently. "I shall," he said with a raised eyebrow. "I think I may know what the problem was," he continued cryptically. "But now I think you need to get some rest, my friend. Madam Pomfrey will be thrilled to have patients," Dumbledore commented dryly as they filed upstairs.

"So he called you Cygnus and then passed out?" Dumbledore asked Sirius, eyes twinkling. They were sitting in the hospital wing, talking quietly over the two sleeping patients: Lupin, and Ryan.

Sirius nodded gravely. "It wasn't funny, Albus—well," he scowled, "perhaps under different circumstances…."

"Then what?" Dumbledore asked, suppressing his smile.

Sirius held his gaze for a moment, as if waiting for an explanation of the Elf's behaviour. When none came, he shrugged. "You said to get him out of there if we found him, so we did. Moony carried him until the sun rose and he transformed back; then I took my shift."

"Did you see Severus at all?"

"No; he gave Moony several doses worth of potion before going in that snake pit."

"So you've no idea whether he might be in danger as well?"

"We had to get your friend back—" Sirius said forcefully, his voice rising.

"I'm not accusing you, Sirius. Please calm down. I'm merely concerned for Severus's safety, just as I worry about you and Remus." Dumbledore spoke calmly and quietly, as if to counteract Sirius's passion.

Sirius muttered an apology. "But he seemed to think something was going to happen when he gave Moony the potion."

"What do you mean?"

"Well…he seemed…resigned, I suppose you might say. Not as if he'd be discovered too, though of course we've all discussed that contingency—"

"Indeed, it's why you and Remus were dispatched nearby the Manor in the first place," Dumbledore smirked.

"I know that," Sirius snapped. "Though I can't say I understand why us—you know perfectly well Snape wouldn't take my hand if he were drowning."

"Nor would you his, Sirius, though I wish—" He cut himself off at Sirius's dark expression. "Never mind," Dumbledore sighed. "Please, continue."

"It was more like he knew what he'd have to do to convince them he's sincere."

Dumbledore nodded and thought about that for a moment. "Ah," he said with a wry and not entirely happy smile, "then let us hope that he truly was prepared for that possibility."

"Albus, are you going to tell me exactly _why_ this Elf of yours thought I was my grandfather?"

The twinkle returned to Dumbledore's eye. "You must admit the resemblance is striking, my boy," he said pleasantly.

"Yes, but—" They were interrupted by the sound of Madam Pomfrey's voice. As Sirius was unwilling to leave Lupin after the strain the werewolf had been through, Albus had asked her to take up a post as lookout outside the door. 

"_Minister_ Fudge," she said loudly to warn them of the impending interruption, "I must insist—"

"I've pressing matters to discuss with Dumbledore, Poppy. Mr. Filch told me he was up here. Now stand aside," Fudge's nasal and clipped voice wafted through.

Sirius changed to Padfoot quick as could be and went to lie down on the floor between Remus's bed and Ryan's. He got there not a moment too soon, for a second later, Fudge opened the door and waved a parchment threateningly at Dumbledore.

"See here, Dumbledore, I need a word—" He checked himself as he scanned the room for the ageing wizard, taking in the two men asleep in their beds and the huge dog between them.

"What can I do for you, Cornelius?" Dumbledore asked cordially, getting to his feet.

Fudge was looking at Ryan very intently. "I…have a complaint here that…." He came closer, peering at the sleeping Elf. "Really, Dumbledore," he said, straightening up, "when I received this owl this morning I was certain it couldn't be true, but now I find the evidence right here!"

"To what evidence do you refer, Cornelius? And what complaint?" Dumbledore prompted patiently.

"Gentlemen, please!" Madam Pomfrey scolded them quietly, but no less strongly for her volume. "I must insist you discuss this outside. My patients!"

Fudge ignored her, jabbing a finger at Ryan. "There! There is the evidence that gives credence to this complaint: that you and he are in violation of clause three of the Code of Wand Use."

"Ah, that," Dumbledore smiled benevolently. "Not to worry, Cornelius."

"Not to worry?" Fudge jerked his head at Dumbledore to request they move away. Madam Pomfrey looked to Dumbledore, who followed Fudge obediently and nodded to her. She went back to her office, muttering. 

When Fudge reached the door, thinking he was out of earshot, he continued venomously. "You harboured an Anvasse here, Albus, and didn't see fit to inform me? You taught a magical creature to use a _wand_? A wand, Albus! You allowed this creature to mingle with your students, to attend classes, to leave school grounds and accompany a student to his home on holiday!"

"The complaint is from Lucius Malfoy, then?" Dumbledore surmised.

"Malfoy? No, it's from Grissom Goyle, and I don't have to remind you that he has been a model citizen for years. Why, I don't know where the potions industry would be without his exchange warehouses."

"I see," Dumbledore said sagely.

"Well, I don't," Fudge countered. "You've taken steps to flout my authority before, Albus, and I don't mind telling you I can't understand why. But a flagrant infraction such as this—really, Albus, you couldn't expect to get away with it? What were you thinking?"

"Only that he graduated from Hogwarts long before you were born, Cornelius, and he has done much for the wizarding world since. Have you forgotten the Anvasse involvement at Trafalgar? Or Normandy? Or the attempted assassination at the International Wizarding Convention of 1967? Who do you think helped us on all those occasions and more? Do you choose to ignore their contributions simply because we chose, unwisely in my opinion, to prohibit them from exploring our methods of magic?"

Fudge bristled. "They are the ones who removed themselves, Albus, who refused to comply to our reasonable requests and who—"

"Who can hear you perfectly well, Minister, thank you very much," came a low and groggy voice from the bed. Ryan pushed up against his pillows to sit and gaze at his accuser.

Fudge gaped at the patient, but recovered himself quickly, crossing to the foot of the bed. "Under the circumstances, I have no choice but to detain you for questioning. You are in violation of—"

"Clause three of the Code of Wand Use, yes," Ryan said lazily as he stretched. "However, I should inform you that my license to use a wand was issued long before the Wand Act, and I have licenses from six other ministries." He looked around the bed, taking in his hospital pyjamas and the lack of any other accoutrements. "Somewhere," he added lightly.

"I'm afraid that's immaterial," Fudge fired back, utterly ignoring Ryan's attempt at humour. "The Wand Act had no provision for grandfathering licenses issued prior to its ratification."

"Yes; I gathered that was rather the point of the Wand Act," Ryan commented drolly.

"Therefore you are still in violation, in addition to numerous counts incurred by attending Hogwarts under a false transcript."

"Cornelius, really," Dumbledore interjected. "Ryan already completed the Hogwarts curriculum; he can hardly be said to have aggrandised his credentials."

"Mr. Goyle accuses this…student…of corrupting his son."

Ryan smirked. "Corrupting? He already read Tennyson, Shelley, and Byron. What more could I do for him?"

"The point," Fudge continued forcibly, "Is that you deliberately perpetrated a fraud, and defied Ministry law."

"Cornelius, I'm sure we can work this out," Dumbledore said, trying to diffuse the tension between the two men. "Ryan, I know you can be trusted to tell the truth. Are you currently in possession of a wand?"

"No," Ryan supplied helpfully.

"And have you throughout the course of your recent stay at Hogwarts performed any magic which you could not have accomplished using methods other than a wand?"

"If I didn't have a wand at the time, I could have used other methods to perform magic, yes," Ryan said, rephrasing Dumbledore's question to make sure he said what he wished.

Another commotion interrupted them. Three sets of footsteps clambered down the hallway, accompanied by three distressed voices.

"Professor Dumbledore!" Hermione's voice sounded outside.

"It's Minister Fudge, Professor!" Harry called in warning.

"He's come to arrest—" Ron cut off his update as they skidded into the hospital wing and stopped just short of Fudge's back. "Uh-oh," Ron observed, turning very pink.

Dumbledore shot the trio a sympathetic, but at the same time somewhat stern look. "I'm certain if Madam Pomfrey were to come out, she would feel obliged to point out to you all that there are patients here trying to recover. And as for you, Cornelius, I think perhaps we should continue to discuss this elsewhere. From the state Mr. Pelerand was in when he was brought here, I judge he has been through quite an ordeal. He should be allowed to go back to his rest. Not to mention Mr. Lupin's condition." He tried valiantly to conduct Fudge from the hospital, but the Minister, in more of a temper than Harry had ever seen him before, shook the elder wizard off.

"I will not be ignored, Dumbledore," he said petulantly. "You believe yourself to be above reproach, here in your protected castle, but I should have seen it before. The lack of discipline in these students, old enough to know better, is testament to your own lack of control. It's no wonder you allowed a magical creature to study with a wand. Werewolves, half-giants, Anvasse—I suppose you still believe You-Know-Who has returned?"

"I do, Cornelius," Dumbledore said gravely.

"Why haven't we seen any evidence before now? It's been almost a year since you told me you believed Potter," Fudge rounded on Harry, pointing at him as if he were made of wood, "and yet no sign of activity."

"There have been signs, as I have communicated to you, Cornelius. I must ask you please to calm yourself. I would be happy to address all your points in my off—"

Fudge made an exasperated, snorting sound. "Oh, this is patently ridiculous, Dumbledore. You've gone too far, do you see, and you will not escape the consequences by equivocating. It's time you learned you cannot flaunt your eccentricities in the face of the law. I am Minister of Magic! You are a schoolmaster. This Anvasse has acted in violation—"

"This Anvasse," Ryan said, feeling his anger and impatience rise, "has been the target of a vicious and premeditated attack at the hands of human wizards, endorsed by the action or inaction of at least fifty accessories and witnesses. This Anvasse," he swung his legs out of the bed and rose to his feet slowly, "could easily consider the trials he suffered indicative of a general attitude on the part of all humans, and could and would if necessary characterise his treatment as an act of war. This Anvasse," he took two steps forward to close the gap between himself and Fudge, "was and would have been bled repeatedly for the harvest of black market Elf's blood to be used in all manner of dark magic, and narrowly escaped with his life. And this Anvasse," he flooded power to his glamour, "has been acting with the full authority of his rank and station as a scion of the Ruling House of Sorolor, a direct descendant of His Royal Majesty, Melian Nelianele Tirianele Peleranel, High King of the Counsel of Seven." Ryan drew breath again, and this time, his voice was icy cold and full of contempt. "If you insist on determining this case by the strength of rank, then you, _human_, would do well to remember that you speak to a prince of blood royal, and keep your place."

By the time he finished speaking, he had brought his glamour to its fullest capacity. Gone were the striped pyjamas of the hospital wing, and in their place he wore a purple and gold flowing tunic, elaborately trimmed, clasped at collar and cuffs, and soft trousers of finest green silk. His appeared to be wearing high boots, gartered at the knee by green leather strips studded with gold acorns and buckled in bright gold as well. The boots extended up his thighs, much more impressive than his travelling pair, and a chain of state hung from his neck. A short cloak was tied under one shoulder, draped elegantly over the other. It was green and embroidered in intricate patterns of gold lace. His eyes shone bright blue, sparking with anger, and his hair smoothed itself into soft waves, the delicate bones of his face elongating even more, making him seem utterly unlike anything from this world. He was Oberon. He was Tam Lin. He was the stuff of legend and fairy tale. Though tall already, he seemed to fill the room. Light emanated from his body, radiating out in a palpable aura of majesty. 

Before the sight, Fudge seemed to quail for a moment. He swallowed nervously and appeared to be reorganising his argument. Behind the Minister Ryan could hear Ron mutter a reverent, "Wow," while Harry appraised him coolly behind his glasses, and Hermione's mouth opened and she blushed.

"Now," Ryan continued regally, before Fudge could protest again, "I shall be leaving shortly, rest assured. I must return to Anvar to report my findings." His nostrils flared haughtily as the last vestiges of his patience ebbed away. He and Dumbledore had tried to be polite; they had tried to save this little and petty man's reputation and arrive at a compromise. The time for negotiation was over. It was time for good old-fashioned backup: intimidation and threat. "How I choose to depict those findings is entirely in your hands, Minister. Shall I portray the men who harmed me as an arrogant, ignorant few? Or shall I conclude that even the sanctioned government of wizards in Britain presents a clear and present danger to our kind?"

"The…the Anvasse have not been sighted in Britain for seventy years, Mr.—Your Highness," Fudge amended at a glare from the Elven prince, still apparently garbed in royal garments. "How did you anticipate your arrival would be met?"

"If we have not been sighted, it is because we do not wish to be sighted, not because we are not present." His eyes narrowed menacingly. "Am I now to understand that the Ministry of Magic seeks to prevent Anvasse from any sojourn in your lands? Am I to conclude that the laws of safe conduct do not apply to your elder and infinitely superior colleagues? Does the Ministry dare to disdain us yet again?"

Fudge blanched, the weight of Ryan's unspoken threat seeming to crush him. He almost shrank into the collar of his pinstriped cloak. "You, eh, you say you'll be leaving Britain soon?" He asked, latching on to the one desirable outcome in Ryan's speech.

"Soon enough," Ryan confirmed, his lip curling.

"Well…" Fudge considered. "I suppose that's… I mean to say, after all, you _can_ produce licenses from other convocations?"

"The Australian Coalition of Wizards, the Ministry of Japan, the Eastern European Conference, the Ministry of Scandinavia and the Netherlands, the Northern African Convocation, and the Russian Ministry," Ryan recited flatly.

"Ah," Fudge smiled as if it pained him. "Well, perhaps, under the circumstances… And Dumbledore, you vouch for him?"

"Unquestionably," Dumbledore supplied without hesitation.

"I suppose…if you're gone…there's nothing I can do, is there?" Fudge asked hopefully.

"There is little you could do in any event," Ryan agreed. "But I am pleased to see that you are mindful of your limitations, and willing to drop this nonsense. Very well, then, Minister, if that will be all, you may go."

Fudge didn't even seem to notice that Ryan assumed command, issuing his orders as if he, and not Fudge, were in power. Fudge ducked his head in a nervous bow and actually backed away a step or two before taking his hasty leave. Harry, Ron, and Hermione got out of the Minister's way quickly, drawing closer to Ryan.

"Cool," Ron said simply, sounding highly impressed. Even the dog was watching him with interest.

But as soon as Fudge was gone, Ryan seemed to deflate. The light faded around him and he shrank back to his not inconsiderable height. He sat back on the bed wearily, his clothing restored to its former pyjama state, his hair mussed from sleep.

"Stars and sun, Albus, I'm going to kill you," he said dryly, and flopped back against the pillows.

"Oh, no!" Hermione said, sweeping to the bedside and explaining in a rush. "It's not Professor Dumbledore's fault, it's mine! I didn't know Draco was in the common room and Harry and Ron asked me how I knew your plan to get Harry's cloak back was all right and I—I _told_ them, and Draco heard me, and—" She burst into tears. "I'm _so_ sorry!" She wailed, leaning into his shoulder to sob.

"Hermione," Ron and Harry both said at once, embarrassed.

"Hermione," Ryan said more gently, though he looked just as bewildered as Harry and Ron. "Hermione—it's all right!" He pulled her off his pyjama top. "It's not your fault at all—it was bound to happen." He looked over the edge of the bed at Dumbledore. "They found Karkaroff. They checked my story against him."

"I see," Dumbledore said, his eyes losing their sparkle. "Is he…."

Ryan shook his head. "Snape was there; he'll be able to tell you what happened."

Hermione's eyes darted between Dumbledore and Ryan. "You mean…it wasn't Draco's information…and Professor Karkaroff is…." She sniffed again.

Ryan reached over to the bedside and plucked a tissue out of the box there. "Actually, it was both," he explained, more to Dumbledore than to the teenagers, handing Hermione the tissue. "Draco's information led Lucius to ask Karkaroff, but it was probably only a matter of time. It almost worked, though," he said with a shrug. "Anyway, that's _not_ what I meant, Albus, and you know it."

Dumbledore cocked his head at Ryan quizzically. Ryan jabbed a finger at the giant dog on the other side of his bed, between him and the sleeping werewolf. "_Dogs_, Albus. You sent me a huge wolf, and an even bigger dog. I'm running from my worst nightmare and to help me get away, you send me…my worst nightmare!" 

At this, Padfoot stood up and shook himself haughtily, then, shooting Ryan a somewhat hurt look over his shoulder, went to sit with Harry, who scratched him behind his ears obligingly. From her perch close to Ryan, Hermione could not tell whether the Elf was joking at all or not. She suspected not.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore smiled impishly. "Now, Ryan, I'm sure you'll agree that we all need to face our fears sometime—"

"Running from Death Eaters bent on sacrificing me is not the time for an object lesson, Albus! I'll get over my fear of dogs if _you_ get over your thing about going under water!"

Dumbledore turned a little pink in the cheeks, but seemed to have nothing to say to this.

"Professor Dumbledore's afraid of the water?" Ron whispered to Hermione. Ryan heard him.

"No; he's afraid of fish. But as fish live in water…. How would you like it if I rescued you by making you use SCUBA gear, Albus?" Ryan shot at his old friend.

"That's gratitude," came a low, gravelly voice, sounding amused, from where the dog had been. The dark haired wizard in grey robes was back, sitting in a chair with one arm flung over its back. 

Ryan stared, then swore. "I _wasn't_ delirious—but how—"

"Sirius Black is Cygnus's grandson, Ryan. Sirius, Ryan Pelerand. I daresay you didn't have time for a proper introduction." Dumbledore seemed glad to deflect the conversation. His eyes twinkled gaily.

"Great," commented Ryan after briefly acknowledging Sirius. "Just great. First he sends me my mortal fear for rescuers, then he plays a practical joke by having one of them turn into my dead roommate. You sure have a way of planning an extraction, Albus._ Why_ did I ever listen to my mother about you?" He threw his hands up to the ceiling, and then he dissolved into the laughter of someone who has cheated death. Dumbledore continued through his own chuckle.

"Ryan, I assure you, Remus and Sirius are two of my best operatives—and they were the only ones in the area," he explained, blushing slightly.

"I'd still like to hear a thank you," muttered Sirius, trying to understand the joke, and still utterly lost.

Ryan paused, swivelling his head around to Sirius. "Thank you," he said punctiliously. "But don't think that gets you out of trouble, Albus," he continued, wagging a finger at the Headmaster and grinning. Sirius seemed about to ask a question, but again was interrupted.

"Why is it so noisy in here?" A new voice said groggily from the next bed. It was muffled a bit by the pillow; the speaker was lying on his stomach.

"Remus!" Sirius said with a start, rising. "Now see what you've done! You've woken him—and he's got two moons to recover from."

"Sirius?" Remus asked, wiping his eyes and yawning. He pushed up on one elbow and turned on his side. "What's going on?" He asked, looking around at Dumbledore, Ryan, Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Sirius.

"Seems our new friend here didn't want to be rescued," Sirius related as best he could discern the situation. "Though personally I think wolf breath isn't that bad compared to Voldemort's," he crossed to the far side of Remus's bed. "Sorry we woke you," he said more tenderly, his attention focused on his old friend.

"'S'all right, don't fuss," Remus answered, sitting up. "I still don't understand, though. I'm sorry," he said, looking at Ryan. "Remus Lupin. We—didn't get properly introduced last night."

"Ryan Pelerand, and thanks," Ryan said, holding out his hand. 

"Hey, how come he gets a handshake and polite thanks and I get told I'm a practical joke?" Sirius demanded.

"Perhaps because you _are_ a practical joke, Padfoot," Remus said mildly.

Sirius looked about to protest again, but then laughed. "I suppose, but still—" 

"It's entirely my fault," Dumbledore interjected, drawing everyone's focus to him. "I admit that I didn't think Ryan's phobia about dogs was still as strong as it had been—it was over fifty years ago that I last saw you react to a large dog, Ryan, you must agree that it was reasonable to think you'd got over it by now. I certainly didn't calculate that you would be either debilitated or delirious at the time, as well, and anticipated that Sirius could explain everything to you before you killed him. Or passed out, as the case evidently was." He fixed Ryan with a mischievously severe stare. "And I still maintain that even taking that fear into account, my options were limited. Remus and Sirius were already on their way there; and when Hermione warned me you might be in imminent danger, it seemed simplest to owl them and add to their assignment." He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Now, in light of the Minister's comments earlier, I believe we are in danger of fighting on two fronts very soon. We have a little time to breathe, but I think we will need to convene as soon as possible to rethink our strategy. Ryan, as soon as you are able, I'll need a full report."

"Yes," Ryan agreed, sobering.

"Wait a minute," Sirius said, pointing slowly at Ryan. "Roommate… Ryan… Cygnus—you're _the_ Ryan Pelerand?" He put the pieces together at last. "You were in the same class as my grandfather at Hogwarts? You're the same Ryan Pelerand who shot an arrow into the astronomy tower on a dare, narrowly missing Professor Timmons?"

Ryan looked a little uncomfortable. "Well, I didn't know she—"

"Oh, Moony," Sirius said, looking back at Remus with clear admiration, "Remember I used to tell you about Grandad and all the things his mates got up to? He and Meningus and Percy Hardwicke—you know, his son was a Hogwarts Headmaster—and Geoff Bramdon?"

Remus nodded at him. "Your inspiration for the Marauders, weren't they?"

"That's not the half of it," Sirius said brightly, overriding Lupin. "They were my inspiration for the Marauders. Grandad's old journal was in my vault—"

"Was it?" Ryan said, looking a little pale. "Perhaps it should stay there," he said wryly.

But Sirius was about to say something more when Madam Pomfrey burst out of her office, looking extremely cross.

"Are you all done making enough noise to wake all of Hogsmeade?" She asked hotly, stalking over to the two beds. "Out! Everyone out! These two still need rest."

No one dared argue with her. Sirius changed again and they left Ryan and Remus to get some more sleep.

A/N: Aw, come on, folks! You didn't actually believe I was going to kill Ryan, did you? Don't worry, there's still a little more to go! Thanks to Amy and Heidi as always for great beta reading. A point of interest for this chapter: http://www.ameritech.net/users/paulcarlisle/MoonCalendar.html shows that there actually were two full moons, on April 3 and April 4 of 1996 (as do other moon calendars on Google). Amazingly, Ryan's escape falls on Thursday, April 4. (Note: for those of you who read an early release of HMSS and believed the moons were on Tuesday and Wednesday, you were both right and wrong. I erroneously read my notes and Lucius thus misspoke, telling us the full moon would begin on Tuesday. It's fixed. The way I look at it, the editors would have caught it had it been a real book. Unlike Rowling, I refuse to move celestial events just for the sake of a little human error. Of course, if I hadn't just told you that, you probably wouldn't even have noticed, huh?) To be concluded….


	13. Denouement

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, transferred to Hogwarts under false pretences. As a Slytherin, he befriended Draco Malfoy to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, Ryan's identity was discovered and he was held captive by Lucius Malfoy. He was tortured and bled, but aided in his escape by Professor Snape, and by the timely arrival of Remus Lupin and Sirius Black. Now back at Hogwarts, he prepares to leave….

Madam Pomfrey insisted that Ryan sleep at least another few hours before getting up, and she determined he would not leave the hospital wing until evening. His ribs had been in terrible shape when Black and Lupin brought him in, so bad in fact that she had had to re-break them in order to heal them correctly. This treatment, added to his fever, his fatigue, his bruises, and his other traumas, made her very cross with him in her motherly way. So, when he awoke around two, she forced fluids on him and a thick, hearty stew from the kitchens in order to restore his strength after so much blood loss. Albus returned to the hospital wing to hear his story. They spoke quietly, as Lupin still slept soundly in the next bed.

"…I was certain I was dead," Ryan explained. "So many times, I was sure that this was it. It was like when we were surrounded that time, trapped in that mine out in Croatia in '48, remember? But I suppose it all worked out."

"And Severus?" Albus asked anxiously.

Ryan glanced up at the entrance to the hospital wing. "Ask him yourself," he said, nodding at the cloaked figure who stalked towards them.

Dumbledore turned and stood to greet the potions master, greeting him warmly, but his concern was palpable. It contrasted starkly with Snape's malevolent scowl. "Is there a problem?" Albus asked urgently after expressing his joy and thanks, both of which were stingily acknowledged.

"Several," Snape said with a twisted smile, "but none too pressing." He paused, and Ryan expected they were in for a tongue-lashing. To his surprise, Snape soldiered on, cutting straight to the meat of his report. "He's told you, I expect, that the Dementors have turned as we thought?" He waved an impatient hand toward Ryan's bed, but didn't wait for an answer. "Seporah and Justin Lestrange are back, though she's still stronger than he is." Snape looked away and snorted. "That's nothing new." He refocused on Dumbledore. "And he's told you about the dwarves and the trolls?"

"Yes. And last night? After Ryan got away?"

Snape sighed through pursed lips. "I suppose it's useless to note that if you'd trusted me with the truth at any point, none of Pelerand's ordeal these last few days would have been necessary?"

'Ah,' thought Ryan, 'there it is.' Yet he said nothing, watching Albus's reaction instead.

The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitched, but he answered back paternally. "I had rather you be a little angry with me now than have been in a position of greater endangerment, all the year through, Severus." He forbore to mention that it was Ryan's trust Snape had had to earn, not his. In his oblique and disarming fashion, he simply took the blame upon himself rather than pass it elsewhere.

Snape held Albus's gaze for another second or two reproachfully, but then slid his eyes away with a curt nod, getting back to business.

"Voldemort ordered that the Death Eater who allowed Pelerand to escape—Terence—be used instead." Snape's voice grew a little thick as he said this, and Ryan imagined he had some idea how Snape had had to react. What he had had to do. Snape cleared his throat before going on brusquely, as if in a hurry to move on to more important matters. "The Eastern Giants have joined him, and he has entered negotiation with the vampires. And other Dementors, of course." His voice remained hard, but his eyes glittered dangerously.

"Of course," Dumbledore agreed. "And supernatural influence?"

"I don't believe he's strong enough to attempt it yet, but before the end of summer, I'd expect it."

"I see."

Snape looked straight at Ryan for the first time since joining them. He held out a small bundle of cloth and leather to Ryan, who accepted it with a polite nod. It made a muffled, dull clinking sound as it passed hands. "Here. I believe this is what you asked for?"

"Yes, thank you. I hope it wasn't too much trouble?"

"If it had been, I shouldn't have brought them."

"Of course." Ryan acknowledged, concealing a certain relief that Snape was still irascible and prickly, a sure sign that nothing was truly amiss.

"I was dispatched to Hogwarts as soon as our business was concluded," Snape explained to both Dumbledore and Ryan. "Lucius was most upset that you escaped, and we reasoned that you would most likely come here for aid. I was to apprehend you, if possible, before you reached the Headmaster's protection." He focused on a point far beyond the solid wall. "How unfortunate, that you chose to abandon your safe haven so soon, if indeed, you ever arrived here in the first place," he concluded in a slightly mysterious voice.

"Yes," Ryan agreed readily, in the same speculative tone. "Otherwise, who knows?" He looked down again at the bundle, fingering it absently. "Well, as soon as our good matron will allow it, you can deliver your report with a modicum of truth."

Snape reacted with the merest raised eyebrow. "There are still a few Slytherin students staying for the holiday, so I suggest you do not attempt to recover your belongings from the dormitory. I'll arrange for the house-elves to bring your trunk up to the hospital wing."

"Thank you," Ryan said politely. "And speaking of thanks," he offered his hand.

Snape looked at Ryan's hand for a moment as if it were a viper, but then extended his own. "Well," he said after they shook, "if there's one good thing that's come of this, it's that my credibility with the Death Eaters seems to have improved. You provided a distraction and a smoke-screen for that, at least."

Ryan shrugged. "Happy to be of service," he said. "Though you had me worried once or twice," he commented with a half smile. 

Snape seemed to take that as a compliment.

Ryan's trunk appeared in the hospital wing well before tea time. Dumbledore was still there, and the two were alternately going over the immediate situation and reminiscing.

"I will miss the occasional brandy with you, my friend," Ryan said to the Headmaster as he opened his trunk.

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed. "But we must get you safely away while very few of the students have seen you. If anyone can confirm that you were here, it will damage Severus in ways I don't want to contemplate."

"Agreed." Ryan stooped over his trunk, pulling out fresh clothes, and one of his long, delicate arrows. He unwrapped the bundle Snape recovered for him to reveal a falcon's leather hood and jesses. Dropping the hood on the bedspread, he held up the jesses and jingled them in a pattern of long and short shakes.

"Open the window, will you, Albus?" He asked while he dressed.

By the time he had pulled on trousers and a soft tunic, Reina the peregrine falcon flew through the open window to perch on his bedstead. 

"Hallo, pretty girl," Ryan said to her. "I've something for you." He put one foot on the bed and snapped the arrow over his knee. Using the jesses, he tied the fletched end to the bird's leg. "Would you take that to your mistress for me?" He asked her politely.

Reina cocked her head at him as if to complain that the job was too easy, and swooped out of the window and away.

"Advance warning?" Dumbledore teased him lightly.

"Indeed," Ryan confirmed. He straightened, picking up the hood and the pointed end of the arrow. "And these are for you, my friend. I'm going to try everything I know to get them to help on their own. I still fear they will not move quickly enough, but perhaps with the attack on my person, I can convince them it is in our best interest to become involved. What I told Fudge was true: I do plan to construe this as an unprovoked assault on Elfkind. Still, there are those who will argue that had I not been in the way…." He sighed, setting aside Anvasse politics. "But in the meantime, should you need to send me a message, cut the hood in half, and Reina will come to you. If you need me urgently, send Fawkes with the pointed end of the arrow, and I will get you any help I can muster."

"I understand," Albus told him with genuine gratitude.

Ryan finished dressing and Albus transfigured the trunk into a travelling backpack. He was garbed in much the same clothing as he had worn when he first arrived to meet with Dumbledore: a tunic of green silk, sturdy brown trousers that bloused out of his stout travelling boots, and the moss-coloured cloak with oak leaf clasps.

"I still have your sword," Dumbledore said suddenly. "If you'll come with me to get it, we can have that last brandy."

The sun was hanging a few inches above the horizon when Ryan crossed the entrance hall to leave. As he opened the great doors, he saw a small group heading up the hill toward him. Three people, accompanied by a black dog: Harry, Hermione, Ron, and the animagus Sirius Black. Taking a deep breath to remind himself the dog was not really a dog, Ryan waited for them to say goodbye.

"You're all dressed up," Ron blurted out as they came in out of the glare. Ryan's clothes looked like some of the Gothic paintings up on the seventh floor of the castle, but somehow, he managed still to look powerful and masculine in them. An elaborate hiking pack hung on his shoulders, his cloak sticking through the straps. The jewelled hilt of a sword stuck up from between the pack and Ryan's spine. The three students had all seen pictures of Bill in his curse-breaking gear, and Ron, who had visited Bill in Egypt along with the other Weasleys one summer, had seen the real thing. Ryan easily looked as cool and collected in his medieval garb as Bill in his dragonhide boots and earring.

"You're not leaving already?" Harry asked as they came inside, taking in the clothes and the pack as he always did, without much fuss. 

"I have to go," Ryan replied. He led them into the little alcove off the hall, shutting the door behind them so Sirius could change, explaining as they went. 

"Was Remus awake yet?" Sirius asked as soon as he was able to speak again.

Ryan shook his head. "Not when I left the hospital wing, but I've been in Albus's office for about an hour."

"I see," Sirius said, moving on quickly. "Listen, I've been wanting to ask you: that story Grandad used to tell about that hunt in the forest—was that real?"

Ryan chuckled. "The Forbidden Forest has always been off limits to students when unaccompanied, Mr. Black. Surely you know that?" He asked, as if the rules were obvious.

Sirius smiled. "Thought so. And the passage on the fourth floor?"

"You tell me." Ryan grinned wickedly back. "I'm sure Cygnus would be proud of all you've done, Sirius," he continued, growing earnest. He held out his hand and the two shook heartily. "Thanks again—you and Mr. Lupin. Farewell."

Ryan turned to Harry. "Our paths really didn't cross, young Potter. But I'm glad to see that you don't take after the Herodotus Potter I knew. Albus has a great deal of faith in you, young man. Trust yourself as much as he trusts you, and you'll be fine. And never underestimate the value of your friends." He offered Harry his hand. They shook like equals, and Ryan could see the pride and dignity in Harry's eyes.

"Mr. Weasley," Ryan said, moving on to Ron's open and admiring face. "I knew your grandfather as well. He was a good man. Will you do me a service?"

"Yeah, I mean, sure," Ron said, turning bright pink and shifting his feet awkwardly. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, all of a sudden.

Ryan smiled his thanks, and it seemed to put Ron more at ease. "I have no doubt that you've told or will tell your brothers about all this. I'm sorry I didn't get to know them better. Would you tell them, from me, that there are no hard feelings at all—in fact, our little altercation helped me with the Slytherins, so in a way, I'm grateful to them. Wish them luck with their joke shop, will you?"

"Er… yeah, I will." He looked a bit confused, his nose wrinkling a bit. "What did they do, anyway?"

"Oh, they defended your honour." Ryan smiled secretively and they shook hands as well. "And Hermione."

Hermione bit her lip. It was easy to approach him when she thought he was a student, or a threat. And then when he came in with Sirius and Professor Lupin, he looked only a few steps from death. Now, robust and very much a grown-up man, with only faint bruises healing on his cheek, and those delicately pointed ears, he seemed an odd mix of intimidating and inviting. "What are you going to do now, Mr. Pelerand?" She asked nervously, feeling herself flush.

Ryan raised an eyebrow at the formal address. "I shall go home, Miss Granger, as I promised Minister Fudge," he teased her with the honorific. "I must tell the council of my experiences here—what I've seen, what I know, and what I fear is coming. I must see my family again, and Maloriel. I've been away too long, especially from her." His eyes grew a little misty, and he seemed to be seeing something the others could not. "Yes, she and I have much to talk about. It's time we put our own plans for a family in motion."

"You mean…" Harry cut in to Ryan's distant look, "you're going to have a baby?"

"If she consents, it's possible," Ryan said with an odd smile.

"But…now? I mean, with everything the way it is?" Harry asked incredulously. "What if…what if you die?" The simple question held a world of fear and pain and abandonment. Sirius hovered closer to Harry, but did not break in.

Ryan regarded the young man paternally. "Harry, you of all people should realise that no one of us should let the circumstances of our lives interfere with living. Your parents knew that no matter what else happened, they wanted to have a child. You. And isn't it lucky for us all that they did?" He caught a movement in the corner of his eye, and glanced over to see Sirius nodding in agreement. There was a look on his face that mixed admiration, love, loss, and fierce determination. It looked just like the expression Harry now wore. Ryan met Sirius's eye, and nodded back firmly. Then he lifted his shoulders in his elegant shrug and continued. "In my case…I don't presume to think a child of mine could change the world, but there is a practical consideration. It's high time the house of Sorolor had a new heir; and this trip home may be my last chance to produce one. What better time to accept my responsibilities to my family?" 

This speech seemed to rouse the Elven prince and remind him that the students who hadn't left on holiday would gather for supper presently. He adjusted the hiking pack and the sword slung through loops between the pack and his shoulder blades, and took Hermione's hand. "Your devotion to your friends is admirable, Hermione," he said formally. "If anyone had to see through me, I am glad it was you."

"But…I'm the reason Malfoy found out," she began again.

"Now," Ryan said gently. "We've been over that before. It is not your fault. None of you should have been involved at all, but you've all behaved as well as I could expect. You'll be ready, when the time comes, don't worry about that. And as for you, my dear girl," he continued, kissing Hermione's hand gravely, "I'm glad to see that you are wearing that badge. Don't be ashamed of success, or your intelligence." He leaned a little closer and said softly in her ear, "And permit an old man to say that though it's none of my business, he still doesn't deserve you." He kissed her cheek lightly before pulling away. Hermione's eyes were wet, but she didn't burst into tears.

"Wait!" Harry said one last time before Ryan opened the door of the alcove.

"Harry, I've got to go. I mustn't be seen, and I must return to Anvar as soon as possible."

"Where is it, anyway?" Harry asked. "Could we come visit you, or something?"

Ryan shook his head. "The entrance to our forests are deep in the oldest woods of the continent, Harry. You'd never find them on your own."

"How do _you_ get there, then?" Ron asked impulsively.

Ryan looked down at his boots. "There's still a good sole on these boots, and leather enough to take me down the road," he said with the air of a riddle. "Good luck to you all. I have a feeling we may meet again. But until then, fare you well, wherever you fare." He bowed to them all, and then he turned the knob, and slipped through the door.

As if drawn by an invisible force, they all followed. Sirius became a dog again and, wordlessly, Harry opened the door. The four of them trailed behind Ryan as he strode across the entrance hall and opened the huge doors. They crowded the doorway, watching the lone figure stretching his long legs down the slope of hill and through the gate. Then he disappeared around a curve in the road, away from Hogsmeade and into the open valley. He did not look back.

A/N: Well, that's it! It's been a lot of fun, and I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did. So now that it's complete, tell me what you thought of it as a whole: favourite moment? Least favourite scene? Why? Was there anything incredibly surprising? Anything you just don't get? When were you the _most_ worried? What do _you_ think will happen now?

Allow me once again to thank A'jes' Blue and Heidi, the best betas (even if they sometimes give conflicting advice), and everyone who has read and reviewed along the way. Your comments, good and bad, have helped to make this story so much fun to do when I've got so many other commitments imposed upon me. I honestly can't say which is more gratifying: getting reviews from someone who's just discovering Ryan and HMSS, or getting a review from those folks who've become as familiar with the story as I am. Either way, it's thrilling to know that this will be out there for friends old and new to read and enjoy as often as they like. 

I'll be completely honest with you all: I have no intention of returning to this exact timeline for a sequel. However, there are some projects I'm working on you should know about. First, I'm working on a Lucius backstory, telling my version of how Lucius became the loveable (!) guy he is in HMSS. While the characterization of Lucius is consistent with this timeline, it will occur years before HMSS and thus will have no direct relationship to it, but you may discover a few threads that come from here. Like why Narcissa decorates her Christmas tree without magic. This is also the same Lucius and Narcissa who appear in " The Waking Dragon," a little birthday fic I wrote for Tom Felton, which can be read at Astronomy Tower. 

And second but certainly not least, there's a new novel-length story about Sirius and Remus, called " Between the Lines," which I am team-writing with A'jes' Blue. We're publishing that under the joint name Beasties Boys, and the first two chapters are up already. This tale picks up for Sirius and Remus at the beginning of Harry's fifth year, includes background about their time at school, after school, and over the summer between GoF and OoP. Note: it takes place in the same timeline as "In This World of Strangers" and "Take the Chance," both by A'jes' Blue. While you don't need to read them to understand "Between the Lines," it will enhance your reading experience to be familiar with these stories. So read them, if you haven't, while you're waiting for the next chapter of "Between the Lines" to come out.

In the meantime, enjoy the rest of the Harry Potter fanfiction world, go see the movie, and keep reading and writing!

Gwendolyn Grace 

30 November, 2001


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